


The Wolf Wakes

by IntoTheFade



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s), Pining Solas (Dragon Age), Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Sad Solas (Dragon Age), Solas (Dragon Age) is Grim and Fatalistic, Solas hates the dalish, Solas is Fen'Harel (Dragon Age), Solas is a sad wolf, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 115,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25408396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheFade/pseuds/IntoTheFade
Summary: When Solas wakes from uthenara he finds himself in the Free Marches, weak and helpless. In the form of a wolf, he is wounded and beaten by a Dalish clan he stumbles across by accident, until Athera, a lone hunter and mage rescues him. Despite her fears, she decides to help him, but can she find it in herself to ever truly trust the Dread Wolf?Or: what would happen if Solas really did have a very good reason for hating the Dalish? This is kind of an AU with an original female character, but will eventually lead up to the Inquisition with a fair few cameos from earlier DA characters. I just really wanted to write Solas as a wolf and I'm terrible at descriptions ok!
Relationships: Dalish (Dragon Age: Inquisition)/Solas, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Solas, Solas & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 281
Kudos: 210





	1. Hunted

Athera drew her bowstring back, sucking in a steadying breath as she watched the elk through the trees. She had stalked her quarry for nearly an hour, moving through the small forest outside Starkhaven on light feet as the afternoon sun drifted through the leaves. It was too much for her on her own, but there would be coin enough for the meat and the antlers if she could get it back to the city before nightfall. 

The elk bent its head to the water and Athera drew a final breath, her aim steady and her shot primed, just as a wave of shouting echoed through the trees. She released the arrow at the exact moment the elk bolted, the shot going wide as a group of Dalish teenagers stumbled out of the treeline on the other side of the stream. 

“ _Fenedhis!_ ”

She swore, throwing her bow down in frustration as her eyes narrowed towards the commotion. 

She knew there were at least two clans living in the Marches, but she’d yet to see either of them, and now one of them had lost her the elk. She scowled at the shouting group, content to stay hidden until they’d passed; until a pained howl rent the air and made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

She retrieved her bow, dropping into a crouch as she moved to get a closer look at the group without being seen.

There were five of them. A couple were old enough to have vallaslin, but the other three were still little more than children. Despite their age, something in their shouting made her wary. These weren’t the carefree squeals of children. They sounded more like the bloodthirsty cries of a hunt.

As soon as she’d thought it, another plaintive yelp shattered the forest, and she caught sight of the animal the young elves were crowding around.

It was a wolf, except, it was the biggest wolf she’d ever seen. She guessed from this distance that its head would come to her shoulder when it was standing, but for now, it writhed on the ground. 

An arrow protruded from its side and another from one of its hind legs, and as she watched, one of the younger elves levelled a vicious kick at its flank that drew another pained howl from the creature as it tried in vain to twist away.

In response, the group laughed, and before she knew what she was doing, Athera was streaking through the stream towards them, shouting curses.

They scattered at once, rushing towards the trees in confusion as she bounded forward, placing herself between them and the wounded animal with fury in every line of her face.

“Garas quenathra?” She demanded. “What is the meaning of this?”

The group stilled, their eyes searching hers warily until one of the boys wearing Andruil’s vallaslin stepped forward.

“The wolf strayed too near our camp,” he said. “Our hunters shot it but it didn’t die.”

“And so you decided to torture it?” 

She glared at them, her hands stiff on her bow, and noted that none of them could meet her gaze.

“Ma banal las halamshir var vhen,” she said, more softly. “This is not our way. There is no place for cruelty in a hunt. Surely you, who bear the huntress’, mark should know this?”

The boy had the decency to look ashamed, and Athera let go of some of her anger with a concerted effort.

“By rights, I should demand that you take me to your Keeper. I suspect they would have something to say about your behaviour, don’t you?”

The looks that passed between them told her that they knew it was true as well.

“But I’ll settle for your promise that you won’t ever treat an animal this way again, and will allow me to give this one a swift death.”

By now, it was clear that they simply wanted to be anywhere else but talking to her. Now that the excitement had faded, a couple of them were even starting to look vaguely nauseous as they listened to the pitiful whimpers of the wolf behind her.

“Ma serannas, lethallan,” the boy said reluctantly. “We will leave.”

She nodded sternly. 

“Dareth shiral. And think on what you’ve done.”

They retreated without another word, and she watched them go, her anger softening into sadness as she turned to face the wolf.

He was collapsed on his side, breathing heavily, and as she approached he flinched away, drawing another whimper of pain from between his slavering teeth.

“It’s ok,” she soothed him softly. “Ir abelas, fen’falon. They should not have treated you this way.”

His eyes watched her with disquieting intelligence as she knelt at his side, one hand stroking through the thick charcoal fur of his neck and the other reaching slowly for the hunting knife at her belt.

“You are the biggest wolf I’ve ever seen,” she told him softly. “I am sorry it has to end this way.”

She sent a swift prayer to Falon’Din, entreating him to make it a painless death, and then raised her knife to the wolf’s throat.

The effect was instant. The great beast thrashed and twisted away, as though it knew that death was coming, and an unnervingly recognisable panic clouded its eyes as it struggled away from her, its muscles trembling.

“Hush, da’len,” she said gently. “It’s ok. It will be over soon.”

She reached for his neck again, twisting her fingers into the thick fur and raising the knife, and then a deep voice cut through the air and froze her where she knelt.

“ _Please_.”

She stilled, her fingers tight on the knife and her eyes widening in shock.

“What did you just say?” She whispered.

The wolf trembled and let out a shuddering gasp.

“Please.”

She let the knife fall from her hand, the breath leaving her lungs in a rush as her mind scrambled to make sense of what she was seeing.

“Are you…” She broke off, shaking her head. “ _What_ are you?”

He didn’t answer, his eyes flickering shut and his tongue panting against the ground. Fear took root in her chest, the sensation dizzying as she picked up her knife again.

“Tell me,” she said more firmly. “Tell me what you are.”

“Is it so uncommon to meet a shapeshifter?” The wolf seemed to wonder out-loud, his deep voice weak and strained.

“You _could_ be a shapeshifter,” she mused. “But you could also be a demon.”

He made a sound that could almost have been a laugh, and then broke off with a whimper from low in his throat.

“I assure you, I am not.”

The last sentence seemed to sap him of strength, and he dropped his great head heavily against the ground, and looked up at her beseechingly.

“Prove it,” she said at once. “Turn back.”

“I am in no fit state to do that.”

“Try.”

He watched her, and she watched him. Long seconds past, and she held his gaze as blood trickled slowly from the wound in his side. At last, he seemed to make a decision, and with a burst of magical energy that she felt tingling on her skin, he attempted to transform.

Shadows swirled around him, and she raised her arm to shield her face. But when the darkness finally receded and she looked again, the wolf was still a wolf, and his panic was a physical thing.

“I can’t,” he panted, his voice suddenly brittle with fear, and she felt something inside of her soften.

The magic she’d felt was familiar, and she knew enough of demons to know that their power felt different to a mage’s. 

“It’s ok,” she soothed. “I felt it. You are no demon.”

She reached out and ran her fingers along his neck, carding through the thick fur in what she hoped was a comforting gesture.

“I will help you,” she decided. 

The wolf sagged against the ground, his breath coming in painful gasps.

“There’s a cave just along the stream here. I can carry you there and then see about tending your wounds, but you’re going to have to promise not to bite me.”

He snorted.

“You have my word.”

She slipped the knife back into her belt and strung the bow across her shoulder. The wolf was imposing, but she was a mage, and despite her lack of a staff she was confident that she could make him lighter for the few minutes it would take her to get them to their destination.

“Right, this might hurt,” she said, leaning over. 

The wolf braced himself, and she leant forward-

-Only to cry out and scramble backwards as his eyes met hers. 

All six of them.

She hit the ground hard and reached for her knife, holding it in front of her as the wolf shrank back.

“Fen’Harel,” she snarled. “ _Harellan_.”

To her shock, all that happened was his ears flattened back to his skull, as though suddenly cowed, and his struggle away from her became absolute stillness. If she hadn’t have known better, she would have said he looked ashamed.

“What business could the Dread Wolf have here?” 

The next words he spoke were barely a whisper.

“What business indeed.”

He closed his eyes, wreathing himself in shadows again until only two eyes looked back at her once more.

“Ir abelas,” he said quietly. “That was not the change I had hoped to make. As you can see, I am at your mercy.”

Her mind reeled. It had been many years since she’d had a clan of her own, but she was still, at heart, a Dalish elf. She bore Mythal’s vallaslin proudly, and her childhood was filled with tales of the gods and whispers of the Dread Wolf’s betrayal. 

And now he was here in front of her, _apologising_.

“You are a god,” she said firmly. “I doubt you could ever be at anyone’s mercy.”

He looked at her sadly, his chest heaving.

“And yet, here I am.”

She watched him in silence. The arrow between his ribs rose and fell with his laboured breaths, and his charcoal fur was black and sticky with his blood. His hind leg quivered around another arrow, his tail lashing restlessly through the dirt. Thin streams of saliva slipped down his teeth, and his whole body trembled with pain.

But it was his eyes that made her pause. Now that she knew, it was clear they were not the eyes of a wolf. They were a light blue-grey, and within them she saw only pain. 

“You are the trickster god,” she said at last. “The betrayer. How do I know this isn’t another one of your lies?”

“Do you have something I might want, da’len?”

She frowned, considering. In truth, there was nothing she could offer the Dread Wolf. She had no clan. No money. No home. In fact, there was very little she could offer anyone apart from her skills as a hunter and a mage, and she was fairly certain that Fen’Harel possessed both of those skills already. There was no reason for him to toy with her.

But that didn’t, of course, mean that he wouldn’t.

She ran a hand wearily over her face and crept closer. The trickster god watched her silently as she moved to kneel over him, her knife still clasped tightly in her hand and her expression fierce.

“You locked the gods away,” she said. “You betrayed them. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just kill you now.”

He closed his eyes, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her, and for a long moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. And then in a whisper so quiet that she almost didn’t hear it, he spoke five simple words:

“Because I want to live.”


	2. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athera tends to the Dread Wolf's injuries. Fen'Harel is a surprisingly compliant patient.

She had lost her mind. That was the only explanation she could think of for why she was currently dragging the unconscious body of the Dread Wolf into an isolated cave. Alone.

It would be easy to blame the wolf himself for her behaviour; to say that he had bewitched her somehow to help him. But she knew intuitively that he hadn’t. She had simply been unable to kill him in cold blood when he was entirely helpless in front of her. And if she’d needed any more proof that he really was helpless, the agonised whine he’d made when she’d first attempted to move him, followed by his swift loss of consciousness, was proof enough of that. 

Cursing, she laid him just inside the cave mouth and sent a wisp of fire into the darkness to check for anything that might be hiding further in. It was with both a shard of relief and a rush of fear that she realised they were entirely alone.

Sweating from the exertion of moving him, she dropped down to the floor at his side, and took off her pack and outer robes. 

He was still out for the count, and she stared at him disbelievingly as the blood pounded in her ears.

“I’m in a cave with the Dread Wolf,” she said out-loud, and then had to clamp her hand over her mouth to quell the tide of hysterical laughter that threatened to break free. 

When she’d calmed herself, she opened her pack and removed a wad of clean rags, a tub of elfroot salve, and her waterskin. She wasn’t much of a healer, but years on the road had taught her to be prepared, and her meagre healing supplies had saved her life many times over. 

She wasn’t sure whether she should hope that they would save the Dread Wolf or not. 

Sighing, she nudged him slightly to make sure he was still asleep, and when he didn’t move, she settled herself more comfortably at his side and reached out with her magic to examine his injuries. 

The arrow in his chest had gone in cleanly and just missed his lung, but the one in his thigh had shredded some of the muscle and it would take far longer to heal. Physically, he was far weaker than she expected, and his mana felt erratic and strained. Two of his ribs were broken, and she winced in sympathy as she realised that one of his front legs had been dislocated as well.

“You weren’t kidding about the helpless thing,” she murmured to him, sending a wave of her own mana through his body and listening as his breathing began to ease.

Frowning, she used her knife to cut the arrows out of his skin, grateful he was still unconscious as she tugged them free and pressed hard against the wounds while she weaved simple healing spells through the torn flesh.

The bones would be harder to deal with, but if he’d wanted the skills of a proper healer then he really shouldn’t have destroyed the other gods, she decided. It wasn’t as if the Dread Wolf could be picky.

In the end though, it took her nearly three hours to deal with the worst of his injuries. By the time she’d fixed his front leg, partially-healed his ribs, and bound the arrow wounds with makeshift bandages and elfroot salve, her own mana was buzzing in her veins and exhaustion rested heavily on her shoulders.

She sat back and wiped her hand over her face, taking a large swig of the last of her water and considering the wolf at her side.

Even asleep and wounded, he was imposing. His muscles rippled with every breath, and his charcoal fur was dark and luscious. The ruff of his neck was a lighter grey, and he had a smattering of white around his muzzle and ears. But the greatest impression he left was one of restrained power. 

Although, in all of the tales about the Dread Wolf, the Dalish had missed out on one very important thing. Fluffiness. She stifled a giggle. 

Fen’Harel was _fluffy_. 

Even so, now that she knew what she was looking at, she wondered how she could ever have mistaken him for an ordinary wolf. 

Despite the tufts of soft fur that stuck up around his ears and rippled around his tail, the thought that she was sitting beside the Dread Wolf made her shudder, and she moved to sit at the cave’s entrance in an effort to calm her racing heart.

This, after all, was the most primal fear; the one taught to her throughout her life. 

_Beware the Dread Wolf. Don’t let him catch your scent._

And here she was saving his life. Perhaps she really had gone mad. 

Now that he was out of danger, she wasn’t sure what she should do next. She could leave, she supposed. He was still sleeping, and it wasn’t as though she’d given him her name. 

But twilight was already drawing in, and the forest was dangerous in the dark. If she’d been on her hunt right now she’d still have spent the night in the cave rather than make the journey back to Starkhaven at this hour.

As though encouraged by her thoughts of the city, her stomach growled, and she grumbled to herself as she realised she didn’t have any food. Would Fen’Harel be hungry when he woke up? Should she feed him?

Abruptly, she imagined a large dog bowl and the wolf behind her burrowing his nose into it. The thought prompted another wave of almost-laughter, and she got to her feet and faced him, feeling that she was only vaguely in control of herself after all.

“You stay where you are, do you hear me?” She said sternly. “I’m going to get us some food, so try not to do anything trickstery while I’m gone.”

Her warning duly given to the unconscious god, she picked up her pack and bow and stalked determinedly into the forest.

It wasn’t long before she’d managed to snare two hares along the stream, and as she filled her arms with dry wood and branches, she decided that if Fen’Harel wanted more than that for dinner then he could damn well get it himself.

When she returned to the cave, the wolf in question was still asleep, but a certain tension in his muscles that hadn’t been there before suggested to her that he was on the cusp of waking. She suppressed another shudder and thoroughly ignored any consideration of what she was going to say to him when he did wake. At least she knew he would still be weakened, so if he did get it into his head to attack her then she would have the advantage. For now, at least.

Keeping him in view, she arranged the branches and used a rune to get a small campfire going just inside the cave. She had skinned one hare and started on the second by the time the Dread Wolf began to stir.

She froze, her hands, still bloodied, turning rigid on the knife.

A few metres away, the great wolf raised his head, his eyes blinking blearily, and she braced herself and tightened her grip on her weapon. 

A moment passed, in which he did nothing more than blink, and then all of a sudden, the Dread Wolf leant his head back, and yawned.

Athera fought to smother the smile that tugged at her lips, as the elven trickster god shook his shaggy head, and _whined_.

“Are you always this terrible at waking up?” She asked, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t really feel.

He stiffened, his eyes focusing on her from across the fire for the first time. Instead of answering, he made as if to stand, and then immediately slipped back to the floor, a whimper building in the back of his throat that almost made her feel sorry for him.

“For Blights’ sake!” She said, getting up and moving towards him. “You’re not going to be able to walk yet, you foolish wolf. Or did you forget about the arrows I’ve spent the last few hours digging out of you?”

To her shock, he had the decency to look chastised, and he dropped his head onto his gigantic paws and stared up at her miserably.

It was surprisingly easy to treat him as though he wasn’t an all-powerful god when he did things like that, she decided.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, moving to check his bandages. “I don’t know _what_ you did to get yourself shot at, but since you _are_ Fen’Harel, I’m going to assume that you deserved it somehow.”

Did she imagine it, or did he seem to shrink in on himself?

She decided to ignore it, but when her hands brushed over the bandage on his flank and he flinched, her ire softened in spite of herself. There was still a fine tremor running through his muscles, and she could feel his mana coursing erratically.

“Are you in pain?” She asked, more gently this time.

After a moment’s pause, the wolf inclined his head slightly, and then tensed as though waiting for her to rebuke him. Instead, she sighed, and sent a wave of cooling mana through his body, until the tension in his muscles lessened and he relaxed against the stone.

Suddenly becoming very aware of quite how close they were, she retreated back to the fire and picked up the hare, if only so she would have something to do with her hands while she spoke. 

“The arrow in your side missed the lung,” she told him matter-of-factly. “But the one in your leg tore the muscle quite badly. I’ve done what I can with some basic healing spells but I doubt you’ll be able to walk very far for at least another week. You also had two broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. I managed to get your shoulder back in but the swelling’s probably going to be quite unpleasant for a few days, and I’ve only managed to do the bear minimum for the bones. A nasty knock will break them again, so try not to flail about, because I really don’t want to spend another few hours putting you back together, alright?”

She spoke mostly to the hare in her hands, but she could feel his eyes on her even though he hadn’t moved. For a long moment, he made no response. And then:

“I have never _flailed_ in my life,” he said.

The outrage in his voice drew a laugh from her before she could contain it, and she raised her eyes to his and stared at him sceptically.

“Oh really?” She said. “Because all you’ve done since I’ve met you is flail.”

A look that could almost have been embarrassment crossed his face, and then he snorted and dropped his nose back onto his paws before turning his head away from her.

If she didn’t know any better, she could almost have thought he was sulking.

They lapsed into silence, and for all of her earlier bravado, her hands shook as she arranged the hares on a spit over the fire. Once they were secure, she glanced over at him, to find the wolf still looking away from her and staring at the wall.

He looked… Sad. 

She mentally shook herself away from that thought, and immediately regretted it when her mind reasserted that this was the Dread Wolf. She was staring at _the Dread Wolf_.

“It’s rude to stare,” he said without looking at her, making her jump.

She took a moment to compose herself before answering.

“Are you lecturing me on… Manners?” She asked. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re not known for your politeness.”

He huffed slightly but didn’t answer, and she shifted closer to him without really meaning to, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“What _are_ you doing here? Why, after all these years, has the Dread Wolf returned to Thedas? And why did you let yourself get caught by the clan? Aren’t you meant to be a god?”

“I am _not_ a god.”

She flinched as though he’d slapped her.

The Dread Wolf… _Not_ a god? It didn’t make any sense.

“Excuse me, but I really think you might be you know.”

He lifted his head with some difficulty and fixed her with a steely glare.

“Don’t you think I would know if I was a god?” 

She thought about it for a moment, and then shook her head.

“Actually, no.”

He blinked at her.

“I beg your pardon?”

She considered it carefully, weighing her words.

“Well, it depends on what your definition of a god is, doesn’t it? If you think of a god as a creator, then okay, if you say you’re not one, I can believe it. But if you define a god as a being that’s much more powerful than you are, and is worshipped by a group of people, and has stories told about it that help to shape that group, then excuse me for saying so, but you’re definitely a god.”

If a wolf could look shell-shocked, then in that moment, Fen’Harel certainly did. In fact, he stared at her for so long in silence that she began to worry he was going to strike her down for daring to question him.

But then he simply dropped his head back down to stare at the wall, and this time he was _definitely_ sulking.

“I am only a god if you stretch the definition to the point of absurdity,” he said at last, and she found she didn’t really have much to say to that after all.

They didn’t speak again until she drew their dinner away from the fire, and the scent of roasting meat wafted through the air. 

“Are you… Hungry?” She asked tentatively, and watched as one of his ears swivelled towards her.

“I am… Uncertain,” he admitted, lifting his head to look at her again. “It has been a long time since I required food.”

“Well, when was the last time you ate?”

“Around 5,000 years ago.”

Her eyes widened and she frowned at the meat in her hands.

“I should definitely have caught more than two hares.”

A bark that could almost have been a laugh burst from his throat, and her head snapped round to stare at him in shock. He was looking at the wall again, but his hide was trembling with something that was definitely not pain. 

Fen’Harel was _chuckling_.

For some reason, this irritated her more than anything he’d done yet.

“Well, I’m glad you find this so funny,” she grumbled. “Next time you’re dying in the woods you can find someone else to catch your dinner.”

She unceremoniously dumped one of the hares in front of him and then stalked back to her position at the fire, tearing off a strip of meat for herself with more savagery than she intended.

When she looked back, the Dread Wolf’s laughter had subsided, and he was sniffing at his dinner with equal parts hunger and distrust.

“It’s not poisoned,” she said grumpily. “I wouldn’t undo all of my work today by killing you now.”

He seemed to consider this, and then in two great bites, he swallowed the entire hare. 

“Huh,” she said. “So you were hungry.”

A pink tongue lolled out of his mouth to lick his lips, and he sniffed the spot where the hare had been as if hoping to find more.

“So it would seem.”

Suddenly having lost her appetite, Athera tore off a final strip of meat for herself and then flung the rest of her dinner towards him.

“Here, you can finish mine. I’m going to get some more water. Try not to flail about while I’m gone.”

As she walked away, she heard the sound of Fen’Harel eating her portion as well, and as she crouched by the stream to re-fill her waterskin, she experienced a potent surge of unreality that would have sent her to her knees if she hadn’t already have been kneeling.

_Fen’Harel was eating her dinner._

She took a deep breath and plunged both of her hands into the water, trying to centre herself. The icy cold did a little to bring her back to her senses, and she sat down heavily and tried to work through her situation as best she could.

First thing was first, she decided. She needed to decide what she knew, what she still needed to know, and what she was going to do when she did know.

The first thing she knew, was that Fen’Harel was real, and alive, and waiting in a cave for her because she’d saved his life. Beyond that, she wasn’t so sure.

Dalish stories of the Dread Wolf described him as one of the lesser Evanuris; a god that, while still powerful, survived on cunning and the ability to outsmart his enemies, rather than on brute strength. But from what she’d seen, not only was the Dread Wolf immensely weakened, he was also not that smart.

After all, he’d managed to get himself nearly killed by a group of Dalish teenagers, and was now reliant on her to catch his dinner for him. These were hardly the actions of an evil genius.

Meanwhile, the wolf in question had just argued quite strongly that he wasn’t a god at all. But if the Dread Wolf was neither strong, nor cunning, nor a god, then what exactly was he?

She put her head in her hands, listening to the rushing of the stream and allowing herself to relax against the ground.

He had said it had been 5,000 years since he’d last eaten a meal, but it seemed the Dread Wolf _did_ need to eat to survive, so clearly, he hadn’t always been the way he was now.

She turned the problem over in her mind.

5,000 years ago, the Dread Wolf locked the gods away. He hasn’t eaten since then. He is weak and bleeding all over her bandages in a cave. He did not have the strength to fight off a group of teenagers. He does not believe he is a god.

The thought struck her, suddenly, that perhaps the Dread Wolf seemed so confused, because he actually was confused. A word nudged at the edges of her thoughts. 

_Uthenara._

Could the trickster god have been sleeping all this time?

She frowned. It would explain how he’d managed to walk right into a Dalish camp without meaning to, and why he could barely survive on his own. But if he had been sleeping all this time, then that meant that his weakness was only temporary.

The thought chilled her to the bone. Had she just saved his life, only to have him grow in power until he truly did have the strength of a god? After 5,000 years of absence from the world, what would the Dread Wolf do once he did return to full strength? Had she doomed them all?

She wrapped her arms around herself and tilted her head to look at the sky. 

She should kill him now before it was too late. That much was obvious. And yet…

She sighed. And yet. Fen’Harel was not the nightmare she had always thought him to be. Nightmares didn’t plead for their lives, or stare sadly into the distance. They didn’t laugh at terrible jokes or shudder in pain. Wouldn’t it make her an even worse monster than him, if she killed something so defenceless?

When she eventually climbed back to her feet, Athera knew only three things.

1\. The Dread Wolf owed her a life debt.  
2\. She was making a terrible mistake.  
3\. She was going to help him anyway - at least until he gave her a reason not to.

Fen’Harel was more alert when she returned to the cave, and she waved the waterskin at him as she approached.

“Thirsty?”

He licked his lips, watching her steadily.

“I believe so, yes.”

She stepped closer and then paused pointedly.

“Promise not to bite me?”

The wolf narrowed his eyes.

“I believe I made that promise already.”

“So you did,” she said softly.

They considered each other for a long moment, and then she stepped forward and tilted the waterskin to his mouth. 

As soon as the water met his tongue, the Dread Wolf’s eyes widened and he drank greedily, lapping and swallowing messily at the lip of the flask until she had to pull back at regular intervals to stop him from choking.

“I’d forgotten,” he croaked, during one of her enforced pauses. “I’m so thirsty.”

There was something remarkably endearing about the surprise in his voice, and she let him finish off the last of the water before he slumped back onto the floor, his muzzle dripping across the stone.

She settled back against the wall and watched him catch his breath with a touch of wry amusement.

“You have been grossly misrepresented in the stories of my people, Dread Wolf,” she said, shaking her head. “I was promised a conniving puppet master with the strength to crush whole empires, and you are a tired old wolf who dribbles when he drinks and can’t catch his own dinner.”

The tired old wolf snorted and scrubbed his nose with a large paw before fixing her with a reproachful look.

“I _have_ been asleep for 5,000 years. Having a physical body again is… Surprisingly difficult to adjust to.”

Ah, so she was right about uthenara then.

She looked into the fire, her hands twisting unhappily in her lap.

“You are distressed,” he observed mildly, resting his head on his paws again. “Why?”

She couldn’t help it. A strained laugh burst from her throat and shocked them both.

“Well, for starters, I’m sitting in a cave with the Dread Wolf who destroyed my people,” she said, ignoring it when he flinched out of the corner of her eye. “Not only that, but instead of killing him like any good Dalish hunter should, I saved his life and stranded myself all alone out here. And now I suppose all that’s left to do is to find out whether or not you really are the monster the stories say you are.”

She released a shaky breath and turned to face him.

“Are you going to kill me when you’re strong enough to?”

Something that looked a lot like sorrow passed behind his eyes, and Fen’Harel’s gaze drifted away from her and towards the fire.

“No,” he said at last. “I am not going to kill you.”

She waited for him to say more, but that seemed to be all he was willing to speak.

“Why not?” She asked softly.

He hesitated a moment, and then sighed so sadly that she very nearly moved to comfort him.

“Because,” he said. “Despite what your stories say, I am not a monster.”

His gaze flicked towards her and then back to the fire again.

“I will explain,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Whether or not you believe me is up to you, but I owe as much to the person who saved my life. But for now, I need to sleep.”

In an impressively short time, the Dread Wolf’s breathing evened out, and Athera watched the firelight play over his fur, her thoughts troubled.

The stories had warned her that he might be fierce. They had told her he could change his shape, weave words like labyrinths and wield knowledge like a blade.

But none of the stories had prepared her for the idea that the Dread Wolf, when she met him, would be so sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this chapter ended up being loads longer than I intended but I'm just kind of running with it for now.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's already left comments and kudos on the first chapter! It was a really nice surprise that lots of you seemed to like my sleepy wolf idea!


	3. Naming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dread Wolf offers Athera her reward, and struggles to adapt to living in a body. 
> 
> Or: Fen'Harel is too proud to tell anyone that he needs to pee.

Despite having been asleep for approximately 5,000 years, it appeared that Fen’Harel was quite content to continue his state of unconsciousness for as long as possible. The next day, he barely roused himself while she changed his bandages and stabilised his breathing. When the sun had been up for some hours and he showed no further signs of stirring, she decided to leave him to it.

After setting wards around the cave entrance, she picked up her bow and scouted the surrounding area. The sun was warm, and she took her time setting snares in the underbrush and examining the few tracks visible in the hard earth.

There was, sadly, no sign of her elk from the day before, but some signs that wild boar lived in the area improved her mood considerably. She spent a leisurely couple of hours hunting the smaller game, ending the morning with three nugs and four fennecs for her trouble, as well as a clutch of wild garlic that she thought might improve the bland meat.

Not that she really cared what Fen’Harel thought of her cooking, but it did feel slightly strange to be offering the Dread Wolf boiled nug. 

When she returned to the cave, though, she found the maybe-a-god still sleeping, and her considerate thoughts towards him soured.

“You are a lazy wolf,” she accused him. “Don’t expect me to keep feeding you if all you’re going to do is lie there all day like some useless snoring statue.”

His eyes flickered open with what appeared to be a great effort, and then he snuffled sleepily and closed them again.

“I do not snore,” he said, his voice thick.

“That’s no excuse for sleeping the entire day away.”

She began to skin the fennecs, her eyes on the semi-conscious wolf as he struggled to rouse himself enough to respond. His tail flicked restlessly over the ground, and he yawned and whined and shook his head as though trying to physically force his exhaustion away.

“Is it really that difficult?” She asked, after a few more minutes had passed in which he’d barely managed to keep his eyes focused on her before they slid shut again.

“Yes,” he snapped, and then at her pointed eye roll huffed out a frustrated breath. “I have been without a body for thousands of years. I had barely woken when I found myself hunted, and in my efforts to escape I used up what little energy I had managed to accumulate.”

He sighed heavily and his front paws flexed in agitation against the ground.

“After so long in the Fade, being in the waking world feels a lot like being forced into a container that’s ten sizes too small. Everything is heavier and more acute than it should be. Hunger, thirst, tiredness….” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Pain.”

Despite herself, she felt a pang of sympathy for him. 

“It certainly sounds… Unpleasant,” she offered.

“It is _abhorrent_ ,” he corrected her, and she studied him for a long moment.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” She asked at last.

He hesitated, and then shook his head, but not before she’d seen his eyes slip to the fennec in her hands and the waterskin at her side.

“I’ll be done with this soon,” she said, gesturing to the half-skinned animal. “But it might be a while before I can collect the wood for a fire. Can you eat it raw?”

“It is not my preference, but it would suffice,” he said magnanimously, and she stifled a surprised laugh.

“Well, what do you know? Beggars really can be choosers.”

He snorted at that, and she met his eyes with a wry smile which she could almost believe he returned. 

Before he drifted into sleep once again, he managed to eat two of her fennecs and drain her waterskin for a second time. As his eyes fell closed and his muzzle dripped onto the stone, she shook her head and tutted almost fondly.

“You really have been _grossly_ misrepresented,” she repeated to the sleeping wolf, and then stalked outside to check on her traps.

By the time night fell, three more hares had met their end in her snares, and she’d heard a handful of elves from the Dalish camp pass nearby on the other side of the stream. They made no move towards their cave, but she reset her wards just to be sure, and settled back against the wall to observe the Dread Wolf’s slumber.

He’d woken three more times throughout the day, mostly to gulp the water she tipped into his mouth and grumble incoherently in what she presumed was ancient Elvhen. The longer he remained quite so weak and pliant, the less frightening he seemed.

She even started to wonder what it would feel like to run her hands through the fluff at his ears, but as soon as she thought it, her cheeks flamed and she curled her hands beneath herself emphatically.

No matter how weak and exhausted he was, he was still the Dread Wolf. And one did not simply start _petting_ the Dread Wolf, no matter how adorable he looked when he was sleeping.

“I’m going to sleep now,” she told him eventually. “Try not to eat me or attract any hunters or doom the world while I’m unconscious, ok?”

He opened a heavy eye and gave her a look that could almost have been withering, but she simply doused the fire and laid down, turning her back towards him and huddling under her thin blanket.

She hadn’t slept much the night before, and despite the hard ground she drifted into sleep far more easily than she’d expected – only to come face-to-face with a decidedly more lucid Fen’Harel as soon as she became aware of the Fade.

“Ah,” she said, by way of a greeting, and the now-much larger wolf snorted in response.

“Ir abelas,” he said. “I did not mean to intrude upon your dreams, but things have always been easier for me in the Fade, and I suspect you have questions.”

She nodded and crossed her arms in front of herself, gazing about them curiously. They were standing in a small clearing in what appeared to be a very large forest. The trees were larger than any she’d seen in Thedas, but they felt familiar even so.

Fen’Harel kept his distance while she composed herself, which she was grateful for after realising quite how gigantic he was in the Fade. Mercifully, he still had only two eyes, and she wondered if that was to make her feel more comfortable, or if he simply didn’t realise.

“I actually have a few questions of my own, if you are amenable,” he said, after long minutes had passed and she still hadn’t spoken.

She drew a breath in and turned to face him, her eyebrow raised questioningly.

“Like what?”

He took a step towards her and she resisted the urge to flinch.

“Who are you?” He asked.

“Me? Oh, I’m no-one,” she said automatically. “No-one important, anyway.”

He cocked his head, considering.

“You at least have a name though, I assume?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. 

Fen’Harel watched her expectantly, and she sighed and let her arms fall to her sides.

“Athera,” she answered. “Athera Arlanan.”

“Arlanan?” He mused. “I assumed because of your vallaslin that you were Dalish, but that is not a clan name I have heard.”

“Do you know all of the clan’s names?” She asked, appropriately horrified by the thought.

“No,” he corrected. “But still, it is unusual.”

“It was not the clan name I originally had,” she allowed. “Nor do I have a clan any longer.” She shrugged. “It’s a long story.”

She thought he might press her further, but instead he simply inclined his head and watched her curiously.

“Regardless, ma serannas, Athera Arlanan,” he said at last. “It seems I owe you my life. If there is something you wish of me that it is within my power to offer, then you need only ask.”

Although his words were warm, a chill ran through her. She had allowed the Dread Wolf his life. Did that mean that whatever actions he took from now on rested on her shoulders as well? All of a sudden, she became very aware of the gulf that existed between them.

In the cave, she could pretend that he was simply a weakened old wolf; a sleepy shapeshifter who was incapable of caring for himself, and was of no more danger to her than any other wounded thing. But here in the Fade, she could feel the power coursing through him. He _felt_ ancient here, because of course, that was exactly what he was. 

The Dread Wolf was immortal and impossible and dangerous, and she had saved his life. All at once, it didn’t seem like such a good idea after all.

Something of her conflict must have shown on her face, because Fen’Harel dropped his gaze from hers and took a step back, his ears flattening to his head.

“Ah,” he said softly. “You regret it.”

For a moment, she entertained the absurd possibility that she had somehow hurt his feelings. 

“Not _exactly_ ,” she replied, only to have him glare at her in reproach.

“Oh, well that’s alright then,” he scoffed. “As long as you only regret it a _bit_ then that’s fine.”

Her eyes widened at the bitterness in his tone, and she took an instinctive step backwards as the great wolf began to pace, his tail swishing dangerously behind him.

“I don’t know why I expected anything else,” he snarled, more to himself than to her. “All you Dalish are the same. Children passing down half-remembered tales, shadows of the People clinging to broken remnants of what could have been, what _should_ have been, if only-” 

He seemed to catch himself then, swallowing down whatever words he was about to speak as though someone had closed a hand around his throat. During his diatribe, Athera had backed herself up against a tree, watching in wide-eyed fear as his monstrous form grew so large that he towered above her, his fur as black as night and his eyes glowing red.

He seemed to notice both her new position and his change in appearance at the same time, and with a guilty dip of his head and a rush of warm air, he shrank back to his usual size, and his fur returned to the same charcoal grey as before.

“Ir abelas,” he said softly. “I mean you no harm.”

Athera couldn’t seem to move, the sheer immensity of him stunning her into silence. This was the creature she had saved. Not the sleeping wolf whining in the cave, but the Dread Wolf of legend, the bringer of nightmares. And she was in his domain.

What had she done?

“Sathan,” he insisted. “Please. I should not have lost my temper.”

She watched as he lowered himself to the ground, his head bowed and his eyes fixed on her beseechingly.

“Do not be afraid,” he said quietly. “I…”

He trailed off, and she peeled herself away from the tree to take a tentative step towards him.

“Yes?” She asked cautiously.

He huffed unhappily and shrank even further into the ground.

“I do not want you to be afraid of me.”

The admission seemed to cost him, but she couldn’t help the disbelieving laugh she made in response.

“Perhaps that would be easier if you weren’t the Dread Wolf,” she said. “I should think you’d be used to people being scared of you by now. After all, it’s the natural result of your actions. Your reputation precedes you.”

He turned from her, his tail between his legs.

“Fear is not something one simply gets used to,” he replied. “And as for my reputation, would you believe me if I were to tell you that it was undeserved? At least, not for the reasons you think it is?”

She frowned.

“Perhaps. Maybe. It would depend on whether you could show me any proof.”

His ears pricked up and he faced her head-on.

“Do you mean that? Truly?”

Her frown deepened. He sounded… _Hopeful_. Far more hopeful than any legendary nightmare wolf should, in her opinion.

“I don’t know,” she huffed. “After that display, I can see why people might approach you with a certain amount of dread. I mean, if you’re going to become a gigantic terrifying monster whenever someone insults you, you might expect people to be afraid of you. And learn to reign in your temper.”

“That…” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

“Yes?”

He sighed.

“I was going to say that is besides the point, but perhaps that would not be entirely true.”

She folded her arms.

“ _Perhaps_?”

He snorted and then sat heavily in front of her, until they were eye-to-eye.

“You are very unusual,” he said at last.

“Strong words coming from the ancient wolf god,” she replied, and this time she couldn’t mistake the laugh that shook his shoulders and rippled through the Fade.

Some of the tension left her and she offered him a cautious smile in return.

“You saved my life,” Fen’Harel said. “That is no small thing. And in return, I will tell you whatever it is you wish to know. I ask only that you listen with an open mind. Do you think you could do that?”

She hesitated.

“Tell me one thing first.”

He waited, watching her steadily as she summoned her courage.

“Did you really lock the other gods away?”

An emotion she couldn’t identify flickered over his face, and he dipped his head.

“Yes.”

Her heart pounded.

“ _Why_?”

When he looked up at her again, his eyes held oceans of pain.

“Because they murdered Mythal,” he said softly. “A crime for which an eternity of torment is the only fitting punishment.”

All of the air left her body in a rush and she stared at him mutely, certain she must have misheard.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to say: _Because I’m a bloodthirsty psychopath?_ _Because I wanted their power?_ She might even have accepted: _Because I was bored and it seemed like a good idea at the time._

But if what he said was true, then it changed everything. She sat down heavily, her head spinning.

“Mythal,” she heard herself say distantly. “The other Evanuris _murdered_ Mythal?”

He didn’t answer, and she looked up to where he was now gazing sadly down at her.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why should you care if Mythal was murdered?”

The great wolf swallowed and hung his head.

“Because she was my friend.”

This was perhaps even more unbelievable than the murder of her chosen god, and Athera put her head in her hands and laughed until tears ran down her cheeks, and the Dread Wolf watched her in silent disapproval. 

“I’m sorry,” she gasped at last. “It’s just… I’m…”

She waved her hand at him and shook her head, still not sure whether she was giggling or crying or both.

“I’m in a cave with the Dread Wolf, and I’m also in the Fade with the Dread Wolf, and now you’re telling me that not only was the god I’ve been praying to my whole life murdered, but that you were friends with her.”

“Is it really so hard to believe?”

She choked on another laugh and sank back to lean against a tree.

“Honestly? I have no idea. It’s entirely possible I’ve gone mad and this is all just a figment of my imagination.”

The Dread Wolf snorted.

“I assure you, I am quite real.”

She sighed heavily.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

They watched each other in silence, and eventually she roused herself enough to wipe the tears from her face and climb back to her feet.

“I assume you have proof?” She asked.

“You assume correctly. Although I would prefer not to revisit those memories until I have recovered a little more of my strength. They are… Difficult for me.”

She stilled, shocked once again.

“You would show me your memories?”

He looked away.

“If that is what you wished. As I said, I owe you my life. The least I can offer in return is the truth.”

Once more, he had surprised her, and she nodded slowly as she considered it.

“I would like that,” she decided. “When you’re ready. But if you could hold off on any more world-altering revelations between now and then, I would appreciate it.”

His eyes flashed with amusement and he inclined his head.

“Ma nuvenin,” he agreed. “Regardless, I-”

But whatever he was about to say was cut off, as the Fade suddenly swirled around them and the forest they were standing in acquired a waterfall and a stream that hadn’t been there before.

“Huh,” she said. “That was weird.”

She looked towards Fen’Harel, only to see him staring at the new water features with an expression of abject confusion on his face.

“So, I take it you didn’t do that?” She asked nervously.

“Not intentionally,” he replied. “It is… Concerning.”

“Why?”

He looked at her, his wolf’s brow furrowed in a very elven expression of consternation.

“The Fade is my natural home,” he explained simply. “Here, I can shape reality with but a thought, and seek lost memories and knowledge where no-one else can.”

“And I take it you weren’t thinking about a waterfall?” She surmised.

“No, I-”

The Fade shifted again, to place another smaller waterfall opposite the first, and swell the stream to a river. She watched as Fen’Harel took a step towards it, ire in every line of his face. He took another step, and then all of a sudden, he froze, an expression that she could only call panic passing behind his eyes.

“Oh, _fenedhis_ ,” he swore. And then he vanished.

A few seconds later, she was pulled from the Fade by the sound of a very familiar whine, as the wolf in question shifted against the cave floor nearby.

She groaned groggily.

“For Blight’s sake,” she groused. “How is it that you manage to sleep all day only to interrupt _my_ rest?”

The wolf behind her stilled, and she rolled over to glare at him, her exhaustion dulling any fear she might otherwise have felt.

“Well?” She demanded. “What was all that about?”

The Dread Wolf huffed and looked away from her.

“It’s nothing,” he bit out. “Ir abelas. Go back to sleep.”

She pushed herself up into a sitting position to look at him. Despite what he said, there was tension in every line of his body, and his muscles trembled against the stone. She sighed, her anger leaving her as quickly as it had come.

“Are you in pain?” She asked softly.

“No.”

She frowned.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

“ _No_.”

She threw her hands up in frustration.

“Then what then?”

“I said _it is nothing_.”

He glared at her furiously, and she stared right back. _Something_ was wrong, if the rigid way he was holding himself was anything to go by, but if the Dread Wolf wanted to keep his secrets then she was certainly not going to pull them out of him.

“Fine,” she huffed at last. “Then I assume you’re okay with me trying to get another hour or two of sleep before the sun comes up?”

“Perfectly,” he agreed.

“Good.”

She rolled back over and bundled herself into her blanket, her mind running through all of the wolf-based curses she could think of as sleep struggled to find her again.

It was a mark of how exhausted she was that she entered the Fade surprisingly quickly, although she didn’t remember what she dreamt of until her surroundings coalesced into the clearing they had stood in before, and she looked towards the treeline to find Fen’Harel waiting for her again.

“Is this going to become a regular thing?” She asked, less terrified now that she’d shouted at his real-life self again.

“Only if you wish it,” he said at once. “My apologies for intruding, but it is nearly dawn and I found myself in need of a distraction.”

“A distraction from what?” She wondered.

“Nothing important,” he assured her. “Having a body is proving difficult to get used to.”

“So you are in pain,” she accused. 

“Not… Exactly.”

“What does that mean? Either you’re in pain or you aren’t, and-”

She broke off as a crack appeared in the treeline, and a sheet of water spilled through the leaves.

“What the-?”

She’d barely had time to consider the horrified expression on the Dread Wolf’s face, before she was dragged awake again by a furious stream of incoherent Elvhen being spat from across the cold campfire.

She scrubbed at her face with a sigh and sat up to face him. He was still cursing, his eyes screwed shut and his whole body braced against the ground.

“Right,” she said firmly. “This is ridiculous.”

He fell silent as though she’d clapped a hand over his mouth, but he didn’t open his eyes, and as she watched, a tremor ran through him and he quivered where he lay.

“Will you _please_ just tell me what’s wrong? I can’t help you if you don’t.”

He didn’t answer, and she let loose her own stream of curses in response. Outside their cave, dawn was breaking over the trees, and she ran a weary hand over her face and stalked over to her bow.

“Fine. If you don’t want to talk then I’m going to catch us some breakfast, and you can just-”

“Wait.”

She stopped at the entrance, her back to him as she struggled to control her frustration.

“Please.”

After counting slowly to ten, she turned back round, to find the Dread Wolf trembling and staring up at her wretchedly. Her anger left her and her shoulders sagged as she moved back towards him.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” She asked softly.

He whined, and then to her shock, drew one of his paws across his nose as though hoping to hide his face.

“It appears that I must answer a call of nature,” he bit out, somehow managing to look mortified by his own words, even as a wolf. “The need has become… _Urgent_.” 

His last words ended on a hiss, and he closed his eyes again, while Athera could only gape at him and fight the urge to laugh.

The Dread Wolf was dreaming of waterfalls…. Because he needed to pee. 

She supposed it shouldn’t have surprised her, really, now that she thought about it. He’d been with her two days, and in that time he’d managed to finish off no less than six waterskins. Still, the very notion that an ancient Elvhen god could be brought low by such a basic need, was equal parts surreal and hilarious.

“ _Please_.”

She realised she’d drifted into her own thoughts, only when her eyes snapped back, to find him pulled taut as a bowstring and gazing at her with something that looked a lot like anguish.

_Oh_. He really was desperate. 

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect…”

He whined, his paws shifting restlessly across the stone and his expression frantic.

“Oh, you ridiculous wolf,” she rebuked him, moving swiftly to his side. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Because I am prideful and foolish, and-” He whined through his teeth. “And _I had forgotten it could get this bad_.”

He shuddered.

“ _Fenedhis!_ ”

“Ok, so how do you want to do this? Shall I pick you up, or-?”

“ _No_.”

He panted, the promise of relief clearly testing the limits of his endurance.

“I think we are past the point where that would go well,” he growled, although whether at her or at himself, she wasn’t sure.

In the end, she settled for lifting him to his feet, and crawling alongside him as they made their painstaking way outside.

“This is ridiculous,” she grinned, as he stopped to lean against her just inside the cave, his body quivering.

“This is the most undignified thing I’ve ever done,” he replied, his tone dripping with disdain.

“Really? You were clearly never a teenager at an Arlathvhen,” she quipped, earning her a snort of laughter and a hissed curse as his muscles shuddered in response.

She stayed still while he gathered himself, and then they edged slowly outside. As soon as they emerged into the early dawnlight, Fen’Harel swept his head back and forth rapidly, clearly looking for somewhere private and cursing at the wide expanse of open space between them and the stream.

“Let’s just go round to the left here,” she suggested. “There’s no-one else around and I can always go back inside and give you some privacy.”

He hesitated for only a moment, before moving in the direction she’d indicated with far more speed than she’d have thought him capable of, given the state of his injuries. She struggled alongside him until they rounded an appropriate corner, and then he let loose another furious stream of Elvhen as his legs began to shake.

Taking that as her cue to leave, Athera ducked quickly back inside the cave, and only then did she allow herself to shove her fist into her mouth, and double over as laughter rocked her from her head to her toes.

By the time she’d calmed herself, she felt almost drunk, and when she looked up again and found the Dread Wolf leaning heavily against the cave wall, scowling at her, she couldn’t hold back the peal of laughter that burst into the air.

“I’m sorry,” she choked, still laughing. “It’s just, you’re the _Dread Wolf_. And you, and you-”

She dissolved into helpless giggles again, which only grew when he bared his teeth and growled at her, still propped up against the wall.

Eventually, she got control of herself again, and immediately felt a spike of guilt as she realised that Fen’Harel was barely managing to stay standing.

“Ir abelas,” she offered him more sincerely. “It’s been a strange few days. Here, let me help you.”

He huffed as she approached, but didn’t object when she lifted him carefully and carried him back to his spot beyond the fire. Feeling inexplicably charmed by his obvious vulnerability, Athera stroked her fingers once through the soft fur on his head while she settled him, before moving back to her own space by the fire.

“I’m glad I amuse you so,” he said bitterly, and she shook her head, a smile still on her lips.

“Oh, don’t be so grumpy,” she chided gently. “ _You_ were the one who didn’t want me to be scared of you, remember?” 

“Are my only options fear or disdain?” He retorted, and she softened at his obvious discomfort. 

“Ir abelas,” she said again. “Of course not. But you must admit, that few people would think to laugh at a god. In fact, the mark of the powerful in any form is that they don’t allow humour to pierce their authority. A king cannot abide the servants to laugh.”

He flicked his eyes towards her and then away again, but he seemed to be considering her words.

“You are saying, that my discomfort at your laughter is because I think myself above it?” He asked at last.

“I’m saying, that your discomfort at my laughter is because you think yourself above me,” she corrected. “And can you truly say that you don’t?”

He didn’t answer, but she was getting remarkably adept at reading his body language, and she knew the moment that shame brought his shoulders low.

“Well then,” she said softly. “Perhaps the great Dread Wolf could stand to let a little laughter in.”

She picked up her bow and turned away, meaning to clear her head with a little hunting, but before she could go, his voice made her pause.

“That isn’t my name,” he said quietly, and she looked over her shoulder at him curiously. “Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf. They came later.”

“Then what should I call you?”

He sighed.

“Solas,” he whispered. “My name was Solas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no idea what happened here but apparently Fen'Harel is terrible at dealing with his natural body, so er... Yeah.
> 
> Elvhen Translations:
> 
> Sathan - Please  
> Ir abelas - I am sorry  
> Ma serannas - Thank you/My thanks  
> Fenedhis - Wolf cock


	4. Scent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athera reaches out to Fen'Harel, only to realise that she can't trust him. The Dread Wolf is an angsty mess.

Over the next few days, the Dread Wolf’s injuries slowly began to improve with the help of Athera’s healing spells. Since their first brief meetings in the Fade, he seemed to make an effort to stay away from her dreams, which was easier now that he was better able to stay awake during the day.

This, Athera quickly learned, was both a blessing and a curse, since it turned out that the Dread Wolf – _Solas_ , as he kept reminding her – had an opinion on just about everything. And he had no intention of keeping them to himself. 

_Your fire runes would be stronger if you flourished your fingers less on the initial flare._

_You should hold the knife lower down when you cut the elfroot._

_The snare would be stronger if you double-tied the rope._

_Your arrow’s fletching needs to be at a wider angle._

And on, and on, and on, until on the sixth night, while she skinned yet another fennec and he commented on the position of her knife, she finally threw down their dinner and groaned.

“Do you know what, Solas? I’m adding _impossible know-it-all_ to the list of things the Dread Wolf stories left out.”

He blinked, apparently not expecting her to interrupt him, and she shook her head in exasperation and brandished the knife at him in mock-threat.

“New rule. No opposable thumbs, no commenting on my runes, or my snares, or my knife skills, or anything else that requires thumbs to safely complete. Understand?”

She turned back to the fennec, handling the meat with slightly less care than it probably required.

“Honestly, you should thank the Dalish. At least we remember the stories of the slow arrow, and of your cunning and wit. Who knew that what we should have been whispering about all this time, is that the Dread Wolf mumbles in his sleep, can’t catch his own fennecs for dinner, and yet seems to have made it his personal mission to comment on everything from runecraft, to hunting, to the proper way to hang damp clothes out to dry, _whether he has been asked for his opinion or not._ ”

She sighed and set the fennec over the fire alongside two hares, before fixing him with a stare.

“Did you really trick the Evanuris and the Forgotten Ones into the Beyond, or did you just talk at them for so long that they all mutually agreed to lock themselves in a very big room and wait until you’d left?”

The wolf stared at her for a long moment, and then he dropped his head onto his paws and very determinedly turned his face to the wall. 

Not for the first time, Athera found herself utterly confused. She was getting far better at reading the Dread Wolf’s moods, she thought. But sometimes, he would chuckle at things she thought would outrage him – like being told he was uncommonly fluffy for a wolf, and had he ever considered giving up the mass murder in favour of providing cuddles to lonely orphans? - while at other times, jokes she thought would have been far more innocuous sent him into a sulk.

And the Dread wolf truly _did_ sulk.

She wondered what it was that had set him off this time.

“Are you sulking again?” She asked, after the first few minutes of awkward silence became unbearable.

“I’m not _sulking_ ,” he huffed.

“Fine. Brooding, then.”

“I’m not brooding either,” he snapped, and then let out a sigh that sounded so sad she actually felt guilty. 

“Well, what is it then?” She asked, and he sighed again.

“I apologise,” he said to the wall. “I didn’t realise my suggestions had become intolerable to you. I merely thought to help.”

She walked around the fire until she was sat against the wall facing him, but he kept his eyes focused on her feet. 

“They aren’t _intolerable_ ,” she said. “But surely, even you must admit that you have been a bit over-bearing.”

“I didn’t mean to be,” he said miserably. “I just…” he shook his head, his eyes flicking away from her and his posture defeated.

Honestly, she thought, they could add _over-sensitive and angsty_ to the list of the Dread Wolf’s flaws, if anyone was keeping a list. 

“You just what?” She asked, more gently this time.

“I just wanted to talk,” he replied quietly. “You didn’t seem comfortable telling me about yourself, and we agreed that I wouldn’t tell you about myself until I was stronger, and every time we talk about the Dalish one of us gets angry, so I just thought…” 

He let out a long breath and finally looked up at her, his expression open and vulnerable, and she felt a surprising wave of sympathy for him.

“Oh,” she said, for want of anything better, and he looked away again and shifted uncomfortably.

“It has been a long time since I’ve had anyone to talk to,” he said softly. “I did not mean to make you feel put upon.”

She sighed.

“Well, shit. Now I feel bad for mocking you.”

He snorted, surprising both of them, and she grinned at him as he tried to look disapproving and failed.

“I suppose I hadn’t really thought about the practicalities of Uthenara,” she mused, stretching her legs out alongside him and leaning back against the wall. “Did it _feel_ like 5,000 years? Were you conscious for all of it? Did you really not talk to another person in all that time?”

“To answer your questions in order, yes, no, and that would depend on what your definition of a person was.”

“What do you mean?”

“During the first thousand years, I was too weak to walk the Fade or maintain proper consciousness. Gradually, I became more aware, but the world came to me in pieces through whispers, invocations, long stretches of sense and then overwhelming confusion,” he replied. “During my more lucid millennia, occasionally the minds of other dreamers would brush against my own, but with stories of the Dread Wolf being what they are, and a distrust of magic more generally, few stopped to speak with me for any length of time.”

She watched him sadly, his eyes distant as he contemplated his centuries of slumber. 

“But spirits would seek me out from time-to-time, and many became my friends.”

She frowned.

“You can make friends with spirits?”

“Of course. They are not so different from us as people think. In Elvhenan, spirits were simply a part of life. Study and Wisdom worked in our libraries and taught in our schools. Spirits of Purpose and Valour aided us in battle. Spirits of Compassion guided the People and spirits of Hope lingered where they were needed.”

She smiled slightly and settled herself more comfortably against the wall.

“I can’t imagine it,” she said at last. “It’s like another world.”

“It _was_ another world,” he said, and this time she couldn’t miss the note of longing in his voice.

Hissing from the fire warned her that their dinner was starting to burn, and she retrieved their bland fare and passed him the larger portion. They ate in silence, while she turned over what he’d told her and did her best not to stare as he tore into his food.

The longer she spent with him, the more she found herself sympathising with him. The stories she’d grown up with painted him as a monster, but what little he had told her of his past had already wiped many of her misconceptions away.

Somehow, she knew he wasn’t lying when he told her that he was friends with Mythal, and that cast him in an altogether more favourable light. But, more than his previous friendships, the fact of his inarguable _realness_ had given her pause.

Hating a myth was one thing, but it was difficult to consider someone a monster when you’d carried them, limping, to the bathroom. It was even more difficult to consider them a monster when they were vulnerable, and in pain, and so obviously miserable that it seemed to roll off them in waves.

Far from being conniving or cruel, Fen’Harel – _Solas_ , she reminded herself – had been alternately helpful, polite, funny, and intensely fragile. She wondered, for the first time, how she would have felt if she’d spent 5,000 years alone, only to wake up, weak and lost in a new world. 

She wondered, too, if the first people he came into contact with had been the ones who’d tried to kill him, and once she’d considered that they probably had, his moodiness and eagerness to reach out suddenly made a lot more sense.

While they ate, she watched him out of the corner of her eye, and thought about what she’d most crave if she were in his position. Conversation, of course. Understanding, definitely. Kindness. Safety. A promise that she wasn’t alone.

Another wave of guilt hit her when she realised that she hadn’t actually treated him with all that much consideration. She _had_ saved his life, which had to count for something she supposed, but beyond that, she’d covered up her fear with snide comments and outright insults. She’d healed his injuries, but only because she had to, and not with any real tenderness or care. 

In fact, the more she thought about it, the only things Fen’Harel had experienced from the new world so far, were outright cruelty and pain from the Dalish, and the bare minimum of decency from her. 

The realisation did not make her feel good.

They ate in silence, both lost in their thoughts, and when she began to tidy their meagre campsite away, she dared to ask the question she’d been avoiding.

“Were you lonely?”

He stilled, and she busied herself with putting away the last of her arrows while she waited. When she’d cleaned away everything that could conceivably be put away, and moved to shake out her blanket, she assumed he’d decided not to answer. But as she laid down, a single soft word met her ears.

“Yes.”

She stiffened, and then sighed long-sufferingly.

“Well, shit,” she said with feeling.

Without waiting for him to respond, she picked up her blanket and settled herself next to him, her back against the wall and her legs stretched out at his side. Before she could think better of it, she reached out her hand tentatively, and rested it on top of his head. 

He went rigid at once, but when he didn’t make any other protest, she began to run her fingers gently through his fur. It was thick and silky, and she relaxed back against the wall and marvelled at its softness as she threaded it over her knuckles.

“Are you… _Petting_ me?” He asked, in a surprisingly hoarse voice.

“That depends,” she answered. “Are you going to bite me if I say yes?”

He hesitated.

“No.”

“Then I am petting you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. And then, impossibly slowly, as though worried he would scare her away, he turned his great head and rested it uncertainly in her lap. When she didn’t object, he relaxed more fully against her, and she grew bold and began to scratch lightly behind his ears.

In response, he let out a content sigh and leant into her touch, bumping his head against her hand and – if she wasn’t mistaken – nuzzling slightly against her.

She felt a thrill of danger as she realised that she was holding the Dread Wolf in her arms as though he were a trained mabari, but it was swiftly extinguished when the wolf in question turned his nose towards her, and inhaled deeply.

She froze, a wave of disbelieving laughter lodged in her throat that she swallowed down before it could rise.

“Did you just _sniff_ me?” She asked incredulously.

Now it was the Dread Wolf’s turn to freeze.

“Perhaps,” he said stiffly, and she stifled a snort.

“ _Perhaps_ you were sniffing me?”

He huffed and hunched his shoulders, but made no move to stop her fingers from carding through his fur. 

“Is that, like, a wolf thing?” She asked, a smile in her voice as she scratched lightly along his neck, and an appreciative rumble rose in his throat.

“It is.”

She waited for him to say more, but he seemed perfectly content to rest his head against her in silence.

“Do I smell good?” She teased, and an embarrassed noise cut off in his throat.

“It’s not that,” he grumbled. “Smell is the most evocative of the five senses. It is closely linked to memory, and in this form, it’s one of the main ways I absorb information about the world.”

“Huh,” she replied. “So, what is it you get from smelling me that you don’t get without it?”

He seemed to consider the question before answering, and she let her hand ghost across his head and down his neck absently while she waited.

“As a wolf, at least some part of my behaviour remains instinctive,” he said at last. “Although I retain the rationality of one of the People, I can’t fully ignore more canine instincts, like hunting, or fear, or… _Pack_ behaviour.”

He shifted slightly, and Athera realised too late that the conversation was making him uncomfortable.

“Scent is important in these things. In the dark, I could easily attack you on instinct before realising who you are. But now that I have your scent, the instinctive part of my brain will recognise you as…” He trailed off, his body tensing against hers. “As someone who should not be harmed,” he decided at last, and Athera suppressed the shudder that threatened to ripple down her spine.

The Dread Wolf had essentially just told her that he had marked her as one of his pack. The thought should comfort her, really, given that it suggested that she was far safer now than she had been before, even if she hadn’t realised it at the time. 

Rationally, she knew that to be true. But the primal, long-held superstition of her people sent an icy shard of fear right through her. And what’s more, Fen’Harel seemed to notice.

“You do not approve,” he said softly, and she realised that her hand had fallen still against him.

“May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent,” she whispered softly, by way of explanation, and felt his body sink.

“Ir abelas,” he returned eventually, and then silently lifted his head and walked a few paces away, before dropping down heavily with his back turned towards her.

She watched him soundlessly, her heart pounding in her chest. For a moment, just a moment, she had managed to pretend to herself that he was merely a wolf, merely a mage; merely a person. But even when he was trying to be kind, the reality of him reasserted itself.

He was the Dread Wolf, and what did she truly know of him? Only how he behaved when he was at the mercy of another person.

Certainly, he had been kind and placid over the week they’d spent together, but he was an ancient during the time of Arlathan. He had ruled as a god, fought as a god, and destroyed the other gods. No matter how familiar he felt to her in the form of a wounded wolf, he was something else entirely. 

And now he had her scent.

A primal part of her recoiled, even as her rational mind tried to calm her. In the glow of the fire, Fen’Harel curled around himself, making himself small and vulnerable looking in the dark. It tugged at her sympathies and made her want to apologise, but then a suspicious part of her began to ask whether or not she could trust him at all.

In the stories, the Dread Wolf was a master manipulator; history’s most successful trickster. What was to say that he wasn’t attempting to mislead her even now? Making himself seem small and non-threatening only to gain her trust, until he no longer needed her?

No, she couldn’t afford to think of him as anything other than the ancient power that he was. Even if the more compassionate part of her itched to comfort him as he curled up in a corner all alone.

Until she knew what it was he wanted from the world, he was her enemy, and this burgeoning camaraderie between them merely a truce. No matter what, she couldn’t afford to let her guard down.

It was these disquieting thoughts she drifted asleep to, only to wake a few hours later when the moon was still high in the sky.

For a long moment, she couldn’t work out what had caused unease to ripple through her blood, but when she lifted her head and looked around her, the absence of the wolf’s steady breathing at her side was unmistakeable.

She was alone, and Fen’Harel was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of thrilled so many of you are enjoying this odd little story - thank you to everyone who's commented/left kudos! It's been fairly slow to start but now the Dread Wolf is being rash and foolish you should start to see some familiar faces...


	5. Magebane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel gets captured by the Dalish. Athera has had it with the foolish wolf.

She had lost the Dread Wolf.

_She had lost the Dread Wolf._

“Shit shit shit shit _shit!_ ”

She’d cursed her way out of the cave, across the grass, and almost into the stream before she collected herself enough to take a breath and attempt to be rational.

“Right,” she muttered to herself. “If I was the Dread Wolf, where would I go?”

The question was a ridiculous one, but it prompted another, better question to reveal itself to her. 

If she was the Dread Wolf, _why_ would she go?

She stood still in the cool night air, her bow held loosely in her hand. Fen’Harel – _Solas_ – was healing well, but it would be another few days before he could make a long journey unaided, and he knew that as well as she did. That suggested that he wasn’t slipping away in the night to run too far.

She paced along the water’s edge, going over the evening in her head.

She knew she’d probably over-stepped her bounds with him, and he’d certainly still been hurt – or, at least, pretended to be – when they’d gone to sleep. It was possible, she supposed, that he’d simply wanted to clear his head. He hadn’t, after all, left the cave for longer than a few minutes at a time since she’d brought him there. 

But she was fairly sure that if he’d just wanted to take a walk then he’d at least have let her know, and probably wouldn’t have slipped out in the middle of the night. Which meant that he was doing something she wouldn’t approve of, and the list of things the Dread Wolf could do that she wouldn’t approve of, ranged from the foolish to the genocidal, with a whole lot of murder and mayhem in between. 

“Infuriating wolf,” she hissed under her breath. “Where are you?”

One thing was for sure: she couldn’t leave the Dread Wolf wandering around alone. Rubbing her eyes wearily, she summoned a mage light and stalked back to the cave. There, she found her own hurried steps in the dew-soaked grass, as well as the large tread of the missing wolf. 

Her quarry might be an ancient god, but she was a hunter, and if there was one thing she knew how to do, it was track her prey.

Stepping softly, she followed the displaced earth to the east of the stream, wading through a shallow section and picking up the trail on the other side. His tracks lead into the treeline, and a sinking sensation took hold of her when she realised that he was heading towards the Dalish camp.

Surely, he couldn’t be that stupid?

Cursing, she dimmed her mage light, keeping low as she followed his trail towards the camp. Through the trees, she glimpsed aravels surrounding a firepit, with torches arranged in a loose circle to mark the boundaries.

Like any good Dalish elves, they’d set up alongside the water source, but far enough away from the treeline that anyone approaching from the forest would have to break cover long before reaching their borders. Safely hidden between the leaves, Athera watched as a tall elf with a hunter’s grace strode out of the nearest aravel, and proceeded to gesticulate angrily with a small group of men and women, all bearing the vallaslin. 

She was too far away to hear what he was saying, but the fact that the camp was so active a few hours before dawn surely wasn’t a good sign. Something – and she had a pretty good idea who – had spooked them.

She kept low, moving just beyond their line of sight and following Fen’Harel’s tracks, until she came to a shadowed area and cursed. There, his paw prints turned into footprints, and she followed their progression with her eyes in growing horror, as she realised that they passed straight between the aravels.

The damn fool wolf had strolled straight inside! What in Mythal’s name had he been thinking?

She pinched the bridge of her nose, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth as she contemplated the situation.

Clearly, Solas wouldn’t walk into camp if he didn’t at least _look_ like an elf, but now she came to an unusual problem: she had no idea what Fen’Harel looked like when he didn’t look like a wolf. 

Even if she were able to sneak into the camp unseen – and she wasn’t particularly sure that she could – she wouldn’t know who she was looking for.

Even worse, was that she had no idea what he had gone in there for. She briefly entertained the horrifying possibility that he’d returned to enact some form of vengeance on the people who’d attacked him, but dismissed it when she remembered that he was still weak, and that he’d entered the camp as an elf, not as a monstrously dangerous wolf.

So, that meant he had some other reason for being here, but what that reason was, she couldn’t fathom.

As she watched, two hunters carrying bows and equipped with iron bark daggers took up positions at the camp’s entrance, and she followed their gaze towards a ramshackle blue aravel opposite the firepit. There were another two hunters stationed there, and she would bet money, if she’d had any, that Solas was inside.

Whatever it was he’d done, he’d unnerved them badly, and she sighed inwardly as she realised which clan he’d stumbled across.

Sabrae. This was Merrill’s clan.

She barely managed to stifle a groan, as she considered the implications of a strange apostate elf wandering into the midst of a clan who’d just lost their Keeper to a demon, and had to banish their First for blood magic. 

“Damn, foolish, infuriating, stupid, helpless, useless wolf!” She hissed under her breath. 

She sighed heavily as the tall hunter she’d first seen lowered himself next to the firepit, and began to speak to a hahren bearing Elgar’nan’s vallaslin. There was no getting in there without being seen, and she could hardly attack on her own. Besides, she didn’t want to spill Dalish blood to protect the Dread Wolf; no matter how ludicrously ill-equipped for the world the Elvhen nightmare god was turning out to be.

There was only one thing for it.

Cursing the Dread Wolf with every step, she stowed her weapons behind a tree, and walked calmly towards the hunters standing guard at the entrance. When they saw her, they shifted into defensive positions, and before she could offer a greeting, the tall elf leapt from his spot by the fire and came to stand between them, his bow drawn.

“On dhea’lam, lethallin,” she said calmly. “Is this how you usually greet your cousins?”

He frowned, although he didn’t lower his weapon.

“Ir abelas, lethallan,” he replied. “These are strange times.”

She inclined her head, keeping her hands in view as the hahren got to his feet, and a small crowd began to gather behind the hunters.

“I mean you and your clan no harm, falon. As you can see, I’m unarmed.”

He considered her carefully, his dark eyes piercing and his jaw proud.

“While that may be true,” he allowed. “It doesn’t answer the question of why you’re here at this hour. Have you no clan of your own?”

“Not nearby, no,” she answered honestly. “But I am looking for a friend of mine. He was injured recently and may be confused. Perhaps you’ve seen him?”

She could tell from the murmurs that broke out behind him that her suspicions were right. The Dread Wolf was inside the camp.

“What are you doing, travelling with a flat ear?” A voice called out from the crowd. “Have you forsaken your own people?”

She grit her teeth and fought to keep her expression placid. 

“I am Dalish in my heart,” she spoke to the crowd. “But it’s my belief that all elves are of the People. Fighting amongst ourselves only does the shemlen’s job for them.”

Behind the guards, someone spat on the ground in disgust, but the tall hunter considered her closely.

“Ir abelas, lethallan,” he said at last. “I believe you when you say you mean us no harm, but I can’t be so sure that your friend means the same.”

Her mouth went dry and she felt her palms start to sweat.

“He’s here?”

The hunter smiled grimly.

“The apostate with the strange manner?”

She swallowed. Of course, they would have noticed his magic.

“He wandered into camp naked, and once he was given clothes and food, we found him trying to break into the hahren’s aravel. When he was apprehended, he set fire to two of our tents, and then fell unconscious. We have bound him until we can decide how to proceed.”

She couldn’t help it; she swore.

“ _Fenedhis_.”

At last, the hunter lowered his bow.

“I take it this is unusual behaviour for your friend?”

She scrubbed a hand across her forehead and sighed.

“Idiocy? No, he’s very adept at that. But like I said, he was injured recently and he’s not been the same since. I’ve been tending to him nearby, and when I realised he’d wandered off alone I came looking for him.”

She sighed and took a step forward.

“Sathan. He means you no harm, I’m sure of it.”

The hunter considered her for a long moment, and she met his stare with an expression that she hoped conveyed sincerity.

“An’daran Atish’an,” he said at last. “You are welcome here, but I cannot release your friend until we’ve held a council. If he were not an apostate, it would be different, but our clan has had poor luck with mages in recent years. We cannot simply release him until we can be sure he poses no threat.”

She nodded, even as her mind turned over the problem and attempted to solve it. Of all the clans to set fire to, the Dread Wolf had to pick this one. He was lucky they didn’t simply kill him as soon as he’d passed out. 

“I understand,” she agreed. “Ma serannas-?”

“Fenarel.”

_You are kidding?_ She thought.

Out-loud, she said:

“Athera. I’m sorry we’re meeting in such strange circumstances.”

She fell into step alongside him as he lead her into the camp, and the crowd parted before him like a tide.

“Are you the Keeper here?”

Fenarel ran a hand over his face as they came to stand by the fire.

“We lost our Keeper recently,” he answered. “Along with our First.”

She hesitated, before deciding that telling him she knew Merrill would probably cause more problems than it solved. 

“Ir abelas,” she said instead. “That is… Unfortunate. Shemlen?”

“That would have been easier to bear,” the hahren said from behind her. “Instead, we lost our best and brightest to magic and pride.”

She swallowed back a retort and forced her expression into one of sympathy.

“I’m sorry to hear it. Is that why my friend has found himself bound?”

“Your friend has been bound because he set fire to our camp without provocation,” Fenarel answered. “You’re lucky that Paivel here called for a council rather than for swift justice.”

A chill ran down her spine even as a flash of anger lit her nerves. She couldn’t deny that Fen’Harel may well deserve death, but these people couldn’t know that Solas was Fen’Harel. Had Clan Sabrae sank so far in their fear and grief that they would kill an unconscious man simply for the crime of being a mage? 

What they called swift justice, she called murder.

“Then you have my thanks, hahren,” she replied smoothly. “He hasn’t been himself since his accident, but I promise you, he won’t give you cause for violence.”

She glanced towards the blue aravel, where the guards still stood at attention.

“Would you mind if I checked on him? He’s still weak, and I want to make sure he hasn’t been hurt.”

The two men exchanged a hesitant look, and she kept her expression calm.

“Of course,” Fenarel said at last. “And when you’re done, perhaps you’ll come speak with us for a time? I’m sure you have some stories to tell.”

She forced herself to smile brightly.

“Of course. It’s the least I can do after my friend was so rude.”

The two hunters – young and nervous, she noticed – moved out of her way at a nod from their hahren, and she thanked them before pushing the door open, and stepping inside.

The interior of the aravel was pitch black, the curtains drawn and the air stuffy and tinged with a strong scent of disuse. She stood for a moment, getting her bearings, and then sent a small wisp of light into the centre of the room.

When her eyes adjusted, she realised she was in a storage area. Shelves lined the walls, piled high with everything from furs, to carvings, to broken pieces of weaponry and containers of herbs. The floor was similarly covered in neatly stacked containers, leaving only a small walkway down the middle that lead to a set of bunk beds which had been carved into the wood.

Kneeling on the floor, his hands tied together with thick rope and lashed to one of the bedposts, was a semi-conscious elf. 

Athera’s breath caught in her throat. She realised, as she looked at him, that part of her had still expected to see a wolf - not this strange man, hunched and restrained on the floor. At first glance, he was bald and unassuming, but as she moved closer, she could see the proud angle of his jaw and the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

He looked strong, broader than an average elf, beneath an old tunic and a pair of tight green leggings. But his feet were scratched and sore, and she could see blood seeping through the fabric over his thigh, where she knew the arrow wound was still healing. 

Despite her entrance and the dim wisp of light, he hadn’t moved, and she wondered if he knew she was there.

She approached slowly, her nose wrinkling as she noticed a puddle of vomit on the ground beside him, and smelt the tell-tale sharpness of magebane in the air.

“ _Fenedhis_.”

Of course, Clan Sabrae would have acquired ways of subduing any mage they deemed a threat. She winced in sympathy. It had been a long time since she’d caught a face full of magebane, but the memory of the sickness it induced still made her pale, and her fevered dreams and lingering weakness had haunted her for weeks afterwards.

The Dread Wolf was not going to be pleased.

A single step away from him, the floorboards creaked beneath her feet, and his head snapped up with a start, revealing familiar blue-grey eyes and an expression that was equal parts furious and horrified. 

His gaze was unfocused, and he thrashed against his bindings as a thick stream of Elvhen left his lips, and he backed up towards the bed. Despite herself, she felt a rush of protectiveness wash over her. 

There was no mistaking it. He was frightened. 

She dropped to her knees next to him.

“ _Solas_ , relax,” she said firmly.

He fell silent at once, his eyes still rolling as he turned his head in her direction, and she saw the sweat beading across his face.

“Athera?” He croaked.

She sighed.

“Foolish wolf.”

She reached for him, intending to check him for injuries and reassure him that they’d be getting out of there soon. What she hadn’t expected, was that the Dread Wolf would collapse into her and bury his face in her shoulder, his whole body trembling. 

“You came for me,” he whispered disbelievingly. 

His skin was clammy and feverish, and she could feel the tremors from the magebane wracking his body so violently that his teeth chattered against her ear.

“Was there any doubt?” She asked. “I could hardly let the Dread Wolf go running around unsupervised. Who knows what trouble you’d get up to?”

Despite her light tone, she brought her arms around his shoulders and held him for a moment, while he inhaled deeply against her neck as though confirming she was real. Whatever his nose told him, it seemed to calm him, and gradually, his shaking lessened until only a slight current trembled beneath her hands.

“Foolish wolf,” she said, more softly this time. “What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t expect a Dalish clan to have the means of subduing me,” he replied, his teeth gritted against the magebane’s nausea. “I still don’t know what happened. I can’t-”

He broke off and pulled away to look into her face, his eyes wild and his skin slick with sweat.

“I don’t know what they’ve done to me. Athera. I can’t. I _can’t reach the Fade_.”

His voice rose in panic and his shivering increased, his gaze entreating her for help even though he didn’t seem to know what he needed.

“It’s ok,” she reassured him, placing her hands on his shoulders to anchor him. “It’s just magebane. It’ll make you really sick for a few hours but it’s only temporary. The Fade will still be waiting for you when it wears off.”

At once, his vision cleared and his whole body seemed to melt in relief.

“Magebane,” he murmured. “Of course.”

He let out a long breath and leant his head against the bedframe. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger, and the distress that had clung to him faded perceptibly.

“I’d heard of it, in the Fade,” he said bitterly. “Mages in the Circles, kept compliant with regular doses. But I never thought it would feel like _this_. It’s like… Like…”

“Like suffocating while you’re surrounded by air.”

She smiled grimly when he met her eye.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “I’ve experienced it before.”

His expression softened into something she didn’t want to name.

“Ir abelas,” he said.

She looked away, waving her hand dismissively.

“It was a long time ago. And you still haven’t told me _why_ you walked into a Dalish camp in the middle of the night and set their tents on fire? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

This time, he had the good grace to look abashed, but his jaw was set stubbornly when he answered.

“They have something of mine,” he said. “I needed it back.”

She brought her hands to her face and sighed.

“Of course they do. And what, exactly, do they have that’s yours?”

“A necklace.”

She blinked at him.

“A necklace,” she repeated. “You attacked a Dalish camp, alone in the middle of the night, for a _necklace_?” 

She wanted to meet his gaze, but the blue-grey eyes of the wolf, staring back at her out of the man’s face, were giving her a profound feeling of wrongness. She glanced away, torn between wanting to examine his new form until she could reconcile it with his other, and the primal need to avoid the intensity of his stare. 

“It has particular qualities that are invaluable to me,” he said smoothly. “And the hahren stumbled across it before I could retrieve it.”

She sat back, crossing her arms.

“And what _qualities_ does it have that are so invaluable to you?”

“That is none of your concern.”

She scoffed, ignoring the way his eyebrows drew together at the sound.

“A bold statement, given that you’re tied to a bedpost, can’t access the Fade, and will likely be kept under the influence of magebane until the clan decide what to do with you,” she said. “If you want to get out of here, you need my help, and I’m not helping you to do anything until I know what you want, why you want it, and what you intend to do once you have it.”

A muscle twitched silently in his jaw, and she steeled herself and stared him down while his hands shifted uncomfortably against the ropes. 

“Would you leave me at their mercy?” He wondered to himself.

“Yes,” she answered, stifling the guilt that pricked at her nerves. “Not because I’d want to, but because you are the Dread Wolf and you’re dangerous. If you don’t tell me what you’re going to do, then I have to assume that between you and the clan, you have the potential to cause the most harm.”

He looked back at her steadily.

“So you would choose the lesser of two evils,” he surmised. “Allow my death, in the hope that it would save other lives.”

She swallowed, but didn’t look away.

“Yes,” she whispered. “But I would rather not leave you here to die.”

The Dread Wolf broke her gaze first, frowning at the floor. After a long moment, he seemed to come to a decision.

“You have surprised me,” he said at last. “Since you first chased away my attackers, you have not behaved in the way I expected.”

He sighed.

“It is only natural that you would be wary of my plans, and in truth, I am so far removed from anything that I consider familiar, that I find myself at something of a loss.”

He looked up at her again, and she couldn’t help but notice the tension in his jaw and the sickly paleness of his skin. Whatever else the Dread Wolf was, right now, he was certainly not well. 

“I will tell you, then,” he decided. “The necklace is an heirloom from the days of Elvhenan. It was given to me by Mythal in my early years as one of the Evanuris.”

“So, you’re telling me that it has sentimental value?” She asked, raising an eyebrow sceptically.

He smiled slightly, and the effect made her feel vaguely off-balance; like seeing a demon start to dance.

“Certainly,” he agreed. “But that is not why I need it. The jawbone is an enchanted object. It attracts and retains ambient energy, collecting my power from the Fade and storing it for my use. As you have seen, Uthenara has weakened me considerably, and I can’t afford to wait years to return to some semblance of strength.”

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“So, you want me to steal an enchanted object from the Dalish, so that you can become a supremely powerful god again, to do… What, exactly? Because I have to tell you, this sounds like a terrible idea.”

To her surprise, he chuckled.

“I assure you, the necklace does not contain that much energy. There were once objects called foci that were used to store great wells of power, but this enchantment is far less potent.”

“How much less potent?”

He considered her carefully, his wrists tugging absently at his bonds.

“I suspect that once I have absorbed the energy in the necklace, I will be scarcely more powerful than the average mage in this world. It’s possible that, given the length of my slumber, I may remain even weaker than that for a time.”

His nose wrinkled distastefully at the prospect.

“Suffice it to say, that you would not be helping me to become, as you said, _supremely powerful_. Not even by today’s weakened standards of magic.”

“And I’m just meant to trust you on that, am I?”

His face fell, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. 

“I understand your distrust,” he said softly. “The stories of your people do little to recommend me. But I assure you, in the time we’ve known each other, I have never told you a lie.”

She chewed her lip, watching the bowed figure in front of her with no small amount of unease. On the one hand, he was the Dread Wolf, and the Dread Wolf was known for half-truths, clever manipulations, and misleading bargains. 

But on the other, he was also just a man, bent and bound in an aravel, sickened with magebane, and lost in a world he had no place in.

If nothing else, she thought, he would want to keep her on his side for as long as possible; if only because he had no-one else who would be stupid enough to chase after him in the middle of the night when he got himself into trouble.

She couldn’t believe she was even considering helping him, but if she was honest with herself, the thought of leaving him here to die felt profoundly immoral – Dread Wolf or not.

“I must be mad,” she sighed. “But I believe you.”

He looked up, his expression softening.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

She waved him away.

“Don’t thank me yet. We still need to convince the clan you’re not a homicidal maniac, get you out of here, steal the necklace, and preferably find somewhere far away before they realise what we’ve done.”

“Yes,” he agreed, the trace of a smile in his voice. “That does seem like quite a lot, doesn’t it?”

“In the meantime, I want to know how you and the necklace ended up here. If I’m going to help you, I need to know what happened.”

He nodded slowly.

“That is… A reasonable request.”

“But?”

“But not one that is easily explained, I fear.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not entirely certain of the finer details myself.”

She leant back against the shelves and closed her eyes.

“Of course you’re not,” she mumbled. “Why would anything with you be easy?”

She heard him shift beside her, and listened to the uneven shudder of his breath in the dark. The magebane was clearly giving him problems, but she was slowly beginning to build up a picture of the wolf, and it seemed that, after the quiet of Uthenara, silence, for Solas, still needed to be filled. 

“What I do know,” he said at last, when the quiet became too much for him. “Is that I should not have woken here. I should have woken in an old stronghold of mine in Ferelden, somewhere far safer than here.”

“Why didn’t you then?” She asked, keeping her eyes closed. It was distracting to look at him, and she needed to stay focused.

“There was an… Incident,” he said ominously. “One of my agents betrayed me. During the fallout, it seems my subconscious must have considered the stronghold to have been breached, and as such, it sent me to another place that I considered safe.”

Agents? So, the Dread Wolf did have others in his employ. She stored the knowledge away carefully to examine later, and tried to follow the train of his story.

“A Dalish camp was somewhere safe?”

He chuckled softly.

“No, it was an old temple of Mythal’s nearby. Little more than a shrine, really. It should have been safe, but the passage of time had weakened the wards more than I’d realised, and the hunters were waiting outside when I woke.”

“And the necklace?” She asked.

“The necklace is attuned to my power. Much like you or I, it exists both inside and outside the Fade. When I transitioned from a sleeping consciousness and into my body, it did too.”

“And you left it in the shrine,” she concluded.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I didn’t intend to, but I was confused. I had expected to wake in an isolated place of peace and quiet, relatively safe and whole. Instead, I woke in a crumbling ruin, to the sound of hunters and shouting just outside the door.”

“That must have been alarming,” she offered.

For a long moment, he was silent, and then:

“You have no idea,” he said quietly.

She opened her eyes and looked at him through the gloom. His face was turned away from her, his eyes unfocused as he stared into the middle distance. From this angle, she looked at his side profile; at the strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, and the weary sadness carved into his face. 

His skin was pale and clammy, and despite his oddly regal features and impressively strong shoulders, he looked like a man who’d been irreparably wounded. There was a heaviness to the bend of his back, as though the weight of the world had sat there for so long, that he had already nearly shattered beneath it.

Once again, she found herself in the strange position of wanting to comfort him.

She tamped down on the urge and sighed, drawing his gaze to her again.

“Okay,” she said heavily. “Ominous incident, crumbling shrine, an ancient necklace of dubious power, and now the Dread Wolf caught by the Dalish. Does that about cover it, do you think?”

The corners of his lips twitched slightly and his eyes sparkled in the dark.

“I believe so, yes.”

They both flinched as a knock sounded at the door, and when she looked back at him, his expression was pleading. 

“Athera?” A voice called from outside. “Is everything ok?”

Solas made a move towards her, as though seeking to resume his former position against her shoulder, but his bound hands prevented him from closing the distance between them.

She met his gaze steadily.

“Everything’s fine,” she called. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

More softly, she said:

“I will help you, but I need you to promise me that if I do, these people won’t be harmed. Can you do that?”

The Dread Wolf hesitated, and then dipped his head.

“Ma nuvenin. You have my word.”

She climbed back to her feet, steadfastly not looking at him as she crossed to the door.

Generations of Dalish elves had sought to stop the Dread Wolf from stepping inside their camps. It was just her luck, that she would be the first to try and break him out of one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of got away from me. Is it too long? Am I rambling? I honestly have no idea.
> 
> Elvhen translations:
> 
> On dhea’lam, lethallin - Good evening, cousin/kin  
> Ir abelas, lethallan - I'm sorry, cousin/kin  
> Falon - Friend  
> An’daran Atish’an - A formal greeting, literally "This place is safe for you"  
> Sathan - Please  
> Ma serannas - My thanks  
> Ma nuvenin - As you wish/as you say


	6. Hahren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Sabrae's hahren proves dangerous to deal with, and Athera finds herself siding with the Dread Wolf.
> 
> CW: for sickness/vomiting.

Athera accepted a cup of mavash from Fenarel and sank wearily onto the ground by the fire. Dawn was still an hour or so away, but the stars were getting lost in the lightening navy of the sky, and beyond the trees she could see the first tell-tale washes of colour that heralded the rising sun.

“Ma serannas,” she smiled. 

“Da’rahn,” he replied, taking a seat nearby. “How’s your friend?”

She sipped the sweet ale and considered her words carefully before answering.

“Unharmed,” she decided at last. “Except for the magebane.”

She held up her hand to pre-empt his excuses, and offered him her most gracious smile.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I understand. Being a mage, I know how unpleasant it is, but I do see why you felt you had to use it. If a stranger had entered my home and started setting things on fire, I would have done the same.”

His posture relaxed noticeably.

“That is… Good of you to say,” he decided. “Our clan has suffered greatly in recent years, and we’re perhaps more cautious than some because of it.”

“I can imagine. Truly, you don’t have to explain yourselves to me.”

She smiled sympathetically, watching the hahren out of the corner of her eye as he observed her none too subtly. Fenarel, she decided, would simply be happy to be rid of them with as little fuss as possible. But there was something in hahren Pavriel’s gaze that made her think he wouldn’t be quite so content to let them leave so easily. 

“I was wondering,” she said delicately. “Would you mind moving my friend outside, perhaps under one of the open canvases? He’s still weak from his injuries and I’d feel better if I could re-bandage his wounds and set up a place for him to sleep.”

“You would have us release him?” Pavriel asked sharply.

But she had expected his response, and when she looked across the fire towards him her face was the picture of calm.

“Not at all, hahren,” she said. “But you could keep one of his hands bound to the supporting beam, and it would still allow him the space to lie down in relative comfort.”

She watched as Fenarel’s eyes flicked to Pavriel, and made careful note of the look that passed between them. Fenarel might be the one speaking the orders, but it was the hahren’s opinion that carried the most weight. 

“I don’t see why not,” the hunter answered slowly. 

But it was Pavriel who motioned for the guards at Solas’ door to bring him outside. 

Deciding that this was probably a test of her placid demeanour, Athera schooled her expression into calm as she waited anxiously for the Dread Wolf to be brought out of his temporary prison. She hoped that he at least had the good sense to co-operate with them.

“You said your friend was injured,” Fenarel said, drawing her attention away from the aravel’s open door. “How?”

She took another sip of her ale to give herself time to think.

“We were exploring some local ruins,” she said slowly. “He took a nasty fall through an unstable ceiling and hurt his leg quite badly on the debris.”

“That is unfortunate,” Pavriel replied. “But treasure seeking has always been a dangerous past-time for those careless enough to pursue it.”

Ah. So he thought they were thieves. 

Despite the cool composure she was trying to project, Athera felt her ire rise. It was common for Dalish elves to seek lost artefacts and knowledge in the forgotten places of their people. She was sure that Clan Sabrae had spent many years doing the same.

But while she was Dalish, to them, Solas was a city elf. No doubt, they had already drawn their own conclusions about the two of them travelling together alone.

At best, she thought, they might be perceived as two lovers, cast out by both the Dalish and the city elves for their love.

At worst, they could be two dangerous apostates, on the run after the collapse of the Circle in Kirkwall, and picking at the bones of Elvhenan’s lost empire for nothing more than petty cash.

The insinuation grated on her.

“The only treasure we seek is knowledge” she found herself saying. “My friend, when not suffering from his injuries, is a scholar and a dreamer. He searches for the lost history of our people here and in the Fade.”

Where did _that_ come from? 

She was digging herself a hole, but somehow, she couldn’t stop.

Fenarel’s eyes, however, lit up at her words, and even Pavriel’s stiff demeanour relaxed a little.

“Your friend is a dreamer?”

She nodded.

“Solas has spent many years travelling the Fade. I’m sure, if you asked him, he would be happy to share his stories with you.”

She wasn’t sure about anything of the kind; she wasn’t even sure that she wanted to risk Solas speaking to them at all, given his opinions on the Dalish and his tendency to offer insults first and apologies later.

But she didn’t have time to regret her offer, before the dreamer in question was being brought out of the aravel, flanked by the two young hunters. In the pale grey light of the pre-dawn, he looked haggard and worn.

There were dark rings beneath his eyes and his skin was grey with nausea. His hands were still bound in front of him, and even from her position by the fire, she could see that he was shaking and struggling to stay on his feet. 

Thankfully, he didn’t seem to be trying to fight them. Instead, he kept his head lowered and his face blank as they lead him outside, and Pavriel came to stand in front of him. 

“Your friend tells us you’re a dreamer,” he said, and Solas’ eyes cast around for her subtly, although he didn’t seem to notice her behind the glow of the flames.

“Is it true?”

The Dread Wolf licked his lips, his hands worrying at the rope at his wrists.

“It is,” he said hoarsely. “I have seen many wonders in the Fade, now long lost to time.”

Pavriel considered him distrustfully.

“You’re lucky your friend is so accommodating,” he said eventually. “The time was that an apostate flat-ear who enjoyed the hospitality of a Dalish camp, only to turn around and attack it, would be killed outright.”

Athera gripped the mug in her hands, willing Solas to stay silent.

“Or, if the damage was great, they’d get a taste of Fen’Harel’s teeth.”

The Dread Wolf’s eyes snapped up to look at him, and she felt her stomach sink.

“Ever heard of the practice, mage?”

Solas swayed on the spot as he shook his head, his expression drawn. Pavriel leant closer, until his face was mere inches away, and Athera felt a spark of pre-emptive panic ripple down her spine. 

“It’s usually used for the shems, but we sometimes make an exception. First, we strip our prisoner. Then, we lash their hands together.”

He tugged on Solas’ bonds and the Dread Wolf stumbled, but kept his feet.

“Next, we give them some leggings made of leather. Except that these leggings are special. Do you know why?”

He shook his head again. Athera’s knuckles were white on her mug as she took in Solas’ clenched jaw and the growing horror in his eyes. But Pavriel continued on, oblivious.

“It’s because they’ve got nails sticking out of them, so that when the prisoner runs, they can feel the Dread Wolf’s teeth tear their skin. We give them a hundred-count head start, running for their life, and then,” Pavriel smiled. “We start the hunt.”

At her side, Fenarel was looking away uncomfortably, but Athera couldn’t take her eyes off Solas. He looked, for a moment, as though he was going to be sick. 

“So, you see,” Pavriel continued, dangerously softly. “You really are lucky your friend here came to get you when she did. We’re even going to let you get some sleep, you see? Just as long as we can be sure that you behave yourself this time.” 

Before she could so much as make a sound, the hahren’s hand snapped out, and Solas’ face was engulfed in another cloud of magebane that was so potent, she felt the ripples of it from where she was sitting.

The Dread Wolf dropped to the ground as though he was a puppet whose strings had been cut, a choked cry on his lips that swiftly turned into a violent retch. In the next instant, Athera was on her feet, her mask of calm cracking as Solas spluttered and convulsed in the dirt.

She waited for the poison to dissipate in the air before she got too close, turning to Pavriel with a look that she hoped conveyed the depths of her disdain.

“That,” she said, through gritted teeth. “Was _unkind_.”

Whatever insult he’d expected, it wasn’t that, and she felt a brief rush of satisfaction as the hahren’s forehead creased in consternation, before she dropped to her knees at Solas’ side, and slipped an arm around his shoulders to steady him.

“Breathe, lethallin,” she urged him gently. “Ir abelas. It will pass.”

He retched again, bringing up nothing but bile as his eyes streamed and his body quaked. She brought her other arm around his front, holding him steady as the first dizzying rush of the poison washed over him. He spat into the dirt, and his hands came up to cling to her arm, a feverish heat rolling off him as sweat soaked through the thin material of his tunic.

“He needs to rest,” she said, directing herself to Fenarel, who was watching the display with obvious guilt. “Preferably somewhere with a little privacy. And he needs water.”

This time, the hunter didn’t look to the hahren before complying.

“We have a spare aravel,” he said, ignoring the furious look Pavriel sent him. “I’ll help you take him there.” 

While the Dread Wolf choked and trembled, Athera wrapped her arm around his waist, and with Fenarel’s help, they got him on his feet. 

“This way.”

Dawn was colouring the treetops gold as they carried him across the grounds, and the eyes of the other elves followed them nervously from open doorways and tents. Athera took a moment to appreciate how ridiculous it was that she was carrying Fen’Harel through a Dalish camp, but then the sickened god lurched in her arms, and she tightened her grip around him.

The aravel Fenarel took them to was painted a bright yellow, with curls of red around the windows and streaks of blue at the edges. Inside, the room was tidy but covered in a thin sheen of dust, as though it had been many months since someone had been inside. 

A small bed, slightly too big for one person, took up most of one wall, and the sheets were patterned pale blue and white. The area looked lived in, with framed paintings on the walls and trinkets scattered around the surfaces, but the overall impression she got was one of a memorial.

Athera had her suspicions about who it had once belonged to, but she didn’t have time to dwell on them. 

“He’s burning up,” she said, lying Solas on the bed and wincing in sympathy as he jerked and curled in on himself instantly.

“I’ll bring you some water and elfroot,” the hunter said from behind her. “Is there anything else you need?”

She glanced around the room, her eyes falling on a stack of small containers containing various herbs and poultices. Yes, she decided, this was definitely Merrill’s aravel once upon a time.

“No” she replied. “Although, maybe a bucket? He’s going to be sick for a while. And can you get those ropes off him now? He’s no threat with that much magebane in his system.”

Fenarel hesitated, but then Solas retched again and let out a groan, his eyes glassy and rolling in his head.

“Athera,” he mumbled, reaching blindly off the bed. “ _Athera_.”

She gripped one of his hands in hers, remembering how magebane could make everything whirl and turn the world into a spinning wheel of colour and light. 

“Please,” she entreated, and with a muttered curse, Fenarel took out his knife, and sliced the rope binding the Dread Wolf’s hands. 

“Thank you.”

The hunter left without a word, and Athera pulled a stool up to the side of the bed and placed her hand on Solas’ forehead, while he held the other tightly between his own.

“Ir abelas,” she said softly. “The hahren is not in his right mind.”

Sweat dripped down the Dread Wolf’s face and his jaw was clamped tightly shut, his eyes struggling to focus on her as his chest heaved. Shivers wracked his muscles, and she ran her thumb soothingly across the back of his hand as he struggled to calm himself. It was very easy, in that moment, to forget that he was a god. Right now, he was simply sick. 

Another wave of tremors coursed through his body, and he clutched at her hand and shut his eyes, his breathing growing erratic and strained.

“Hush now,” she soothed. “Just breathe. It’ll be worse if you panic.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but the words were cut off by a groan and he swallowed hard, his breaths coming in painful gasps. She moved closer, smoothing her hand across his forehead and bending her face close to his.

“Solas, look at me.”

His eyes snapped open and he focused on her with some difficulty.

“Breathe with me.”

She brought their joined hands up to his chest and pressed them gently over his heart, anchoring him as she drew in a slow breath through her nose, and let it out gently through her mouth. At first, he simply choked, but after a few attempts his panic began to fade, and his breathing evened out to match hers.

“Good,” she encouraged him. “That’s good. The worst of the spinning will pass soon, but the sickness will be worse if you fight it.”

Behind her, she heard the aravel door open, and Fenarel silently deposited a bucket next to her, as well as a pale of water and a clutch of elfroot. She was grateful that he left without speaking, because she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to reply without cursing.

When the door closed behind him again, she set the bucket by Solas’ head, and he immediately let go of her hand and doubled over to vomit violently into it. Sighing, she rubbed gentle circles on his back as he retched, unable to feel anything but pity for him as the magebane coursed through his system.

The Dalish had spent so many years making the Dread Wolf into a monster, but now, she couldn’t help but think that they were the ones behaving monstrously. 

When the wave of sickness had passed, Solas collapsed back on the bed, his eyes closed and his hands holding tight to the blankets beneath him. She could feel the heat rolling off him in waves, and she dug through a drawer until she found an old shirt and began to tear it into strips.

He was unnervingly silent while she worked, but when she filled a mug with water and held it to his lips, he drank greedily until she stilled him.

“ _Slowly_ ,” she warned. “Or you’ll only see it again in a second.”

When he’d sipped his fill, she dipped the fabric strips into the pale and wrung them out until they were cool and damp. Feeling an intense sense of unreality – _she was taking care of the Dread Wolf in an aravel_ – she helped him out of his tunic and placed one strip across his chest, her brow furrowing at the fevered heat in his skin.

He let out a soft sigh as she placed another across his forehead, and used the third to dab gently over his face and neck, wiping away the sheen of sweat and cooling him as best she could. 

“There now,” she said quietly, as some of the tension left his body and he sank back into the pillows. “The worst is over. You just need to rest now.”

Blue-grey eyes met hers, and the hurt in his gaze was so intense that she had to look away. 

“Is that truly my legacy?” He asked hoarsely. 

She shook her head, not understanding what he meant. 

“Fen’Harel’s teeth. After everything I did. Everything I sacrificed. Is that all I have given the People? Cruelty, and pain, and… _Barbarism?_ ”

His chest heaved, and she instinctively took hold of one of his hands in hers as he looked up at her, his eyes wide with horror.

“I gave my life,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I abandoned everything dear to me, in the hope that the People might one day be free. Is this all I’ve wrought?”

Her eyes burned and she shook her head, unable to answer because all she could say was: yes. This _is_ your legacy.

Fen’Harel’s stories existed only as morality tales. His statues were set up outside the camp, facing away, in the hope that he would never find entry. He wasn’t worshipped as the other gods were; only offered tributes to persuade him not to bring disaster. And as far as she knew, Fen’Harel’s teeth was the only true practice associated with the Dread Wolf left. There were no others.

She had never considered their superstitions to be anything but reasonable before, but now, as the Dread Wolf himself stared at her with eyes that shone with sorrow, and spoke words that made no sense when compared to the stories she’d heard, she wondered if the Dalish hadn’t wounded the trickster god far more deeply than he had ever wounded them. 

“Solas…” 

She squeezed his fingers gently, and in one fluid movement, he pulled away and hid his face behind his hands, a sound of pure misery tearing from his throat.

“ _Don’t!_ ” He snapped, when she reached for him instinctively. “Don’t touch me.”

He rolled over to face the wall, his back turned towards her and his face still hidden.

“Don’t,” he choked. “Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me. Please. Just _don’t_.” 

She turned away as his shoulders started to shake, and listened with tears in her eyes as the Dread Wolf began to sob, almost silently, into his hands.

As the minutes stretched on and dawn broke outside the window, she dug through the containers of herbs until she found a chunk of ginger root, humming a Dalish lullaby under her breath as she peeled and crushed it, and left it to soak in a mug of water.

When the sun began to stream through the window, bathing everything in warm golden tones, she removed the ginger and turned back to the bed, still humming softly. Solas had rolled back to face her while she worked. He looked exhausted. Hollow. His eyes bloodshot and his face streaked with tears, and the grey tinge of his skin made more apparent in the sunlight.

“Here,” she said quietly, handing him the mug. “It will help with the nausea.”

He hesitated, watching her with an inscrutable expression, and then he eased himself up onto an elbow and took it from her with a shaky hand. They sat in silence while he drank, and Athera listened to the sounds of the camp waking up beyond their walls.

“Better?”

She took the mug from him when he was done, and he rolled to face her but didn’t reply, his eyes roving over her face as though trying to solve a puzzle. She ignored his scrutiny, pulling back his bedding and removing the damp strips of fabric from his chest. 

“Why are you helping me?” He asked in a small voice, as she drew the blankets up and tucked them around him carefully. “To you, I am a monster.” He frowned. “I must be.”

He shivered, his face drawn in misery as he curled a hand around the fabric. 

“You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

She swallowed, smoothing her hand over the blankets before taking a deep breath, and looking into his face. Slowly, she held out her hand, palm-up towards him. An offering. He stared at it for a long moment, and then, hesitantly, drew his own hand out from under the blanket and slipped it into hers.

She squeezed gently in response, running her thumb over the back of his knuckles.

“At first, I helped you simply because you needed help,” she said at last.

He swallowed, his jaw clenched tight.

“And now?”

“Now, I’m helping you because…” 

She looked away, her throat contracting around the words. 

“Because I don’t think you’re the monster here,” she answered at last.

His grip on her hand tightened until it was almost painful, and she smiled at him wryly. 

“And because you _do_ still need the help. You foolish wolf.”

Solas let out a breath and sank back against the pillows, drawing their joined hands down to rest at his side.

“Ma serannas,” he whispered.

She squeezed his hand again.

“Get some sleep now,” she said. “Because when you wake up, I’m going to need you to stop me from punching the hahren.”

Obediently, the Dread Wolf closed his eyes, the ghost of a smile caught in a sunbeam that fell across his face. Athera held his hand until his breathing became deep and even, and then she slipped her fingers out of his, and got to her feet.

Clan Sabrae might have bested Fen’Harel. But they had never seen Athera angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen translations:
> 
> Mavash - Dalish ale  
> Ma serannas - Thank you  
> Da'rahn - You're welcome/no problem  
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry


	7. Halla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athera attempts to garner favour with the clan. The Dread Wolf sleeps

Her instinct was to storm into the middle of the camp and simply start throwing things, and if they hadn't still needed to get Solas’ necklace back, she might have done just that. It had been a long time since Athera had needed to strategise; a year since she’d had anyone to protect. But the logical nature that had kept her alive for so long was not so easily ignored.

So, instead of screaming bloody murder in the hahren’s face, she very calmly began to inventory Merrill’s aravel while the Dread Wolf slept. 

As she’d suspected, anything of arcane value had been removed, but magic wasn’t the only useful thing Merrill had stashed away. At the back of one of the cupboards, hidden behind piles of old clothes, she found a number of flasks lined up in a neat row.

Most were empty, but two were filled with Deathroot extract, and one turned out to be a hastily constructed acid flask. It wasn’t the sturdiest home-made explosive she’d ever come across, but after wiping down the seam where some of the liquid had escaped, she wrapped it in the remnants of the shirt and set it carefully on the side table. 

She didn’t want to attack the camp, but if it came to it, the Deathroot would at least slow down anyone attempting to follow them. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use the explosive, but it wasn’t going to do anyone any good sitting in the cupboard.

Further exploration of the aravel revealed a half-empty lyrium potion, and an old vial of healing potion. She uncovered a rucksack with one of the straps missing, and carefully stored her finds away, wrapping them in the damp shirt strips she’d tended to Solas with.

The Dread Wolf didn’t stir while she claimed an old pair of Merril’s leggings for herself, and bound up the elfroot Fenarel had given them before slipping it into the front pocket of the pack. A tin of stale biscuits went in next, followed by a length of rope she found under the bed, and a fresh set of bandages.

Once she’d determined that anything useful was carefully stored away, she slipped the pack under the bed and rested a gentle hand on Solas’ forehead. He was still warm, but far less feverish than before, which she took as a good sign.

In the quiet, she indulged the opportunity to study him. Even in sleep, his forehead was drawn into an unhappy frown, but the sunlight cast his features into something altogether striking. It was strange, really, that a man could look so unassuming at first glance, but the more she looked, the more eldritch and – she thought the word with a spike of displeasure – _beautiful_ , he was.

And it was beauty. The beauty of sharp cheekbones and delicate eyelashes; of a strong jaw and full lips; of pale skin with a dusting of freckles just visible in the morning light. It was rude, really, she thought, that the Dread Wolf should dare to be attractive. And it was certainly not something she needed to focus on now.

With a last glance his way, she turned to leave, a wisp of a plan forming in her mind. After all, anger didn’t have to burn hot and destructive. Instead, it could be turned into something cold and meticulous. Something that people didn’t expect. 

If you couldn’t beat them, join them.

And if you didn’t want to join them, divide them.

The early morning air was cool on her face after the stuffy heat inside the aravel, and she stood still for a moment breathing deeply, her face tipped back to the sky. Feigning distraction, she took careful note of the layout of the camp.

Merrill’s aravel was the furthest from the treeline, backed right up against the river, while the others were arranged in a loose semi-circle nearer to the trees. A large tent next to where she’d first entered seemed to be home to a crafting table, and between the borders of the camp and the forest there was a small halla pen, surrounded by children.

The sound of their laughter made her blood seize violently in her veins for a sharp second of pain, and she closed her eyes and waited for the sensation to pass. When it had eased to a dull ache somewhere in the vicinity of her ribcage, she resumed her careful assessment of the camp. 

The firepit was lit, and a pot of oats was bubbling over it, while a harried looking woman with blonde hair and bearing Sylaise’s vallaslin, stirred it at regular intervals while attempting to soothe a babbling toddler. 

Donning her friendliest smile, Athera approached her and sat down, ignoring the wide-eyed look she received in response.

“Do you need a hand?”

The woman gaped at her, and then seemed to remember herself.

“Oh, no, honestly it’s fine.”

“Sathan,” Athera smiled. “It’s no trouble. It looks like you have your hands full.”

She winked at the toddler, and the young girl giggled and resumed trying to reach the spoon. 

“Do these need cutting?” She gestured to the herbs on a slab of shale by the pot, and reluctantly, the woman nodded. 

Athera picked up the knife and began to chop diagonally, nimble fingers making quick work of the pile while the toddler watched her curiously.

“On dhea, da’len,” she smiled, a dull ache in her chest as two blue eyes stared back at her. “Are you being a handful?”

The girl giggled and ducked her head shyly behind her mamae.

“She’s beautiful,” she said sincerely, and the woman smiled.

“When she’s quiet, yeah,” she laughed. “Can’t remember the last time that happened though.”

Athera grinned.

“But you’d be sorry if she was too quiet.”

“True enough.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, and Athera waited patiently until she spoke again.

“You’re the Dalish who came in with that city apostate, aren’t you?”

“Athera,” she introduced herself. “And I consider myself his reluctant Keeper,” she said light-heartedly, and made sure to duck her head as though embarrassed to admit it. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the woman take the bait and lean forward curiously.

“Inar,” she offered. “And this little terror is Eshne.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

She finished the herbs and moved on to peeling the sweetfruit, setting it aside into small piles the way she remembered from her own clan. 

“So…” Inar said meaningfully. “A city elf?”

Sitting so close to the heat of the fire, it was an easy thing to make herself blush, and an even simpler thing to force a giggle from her lips.

“I know, I know,” she smiled. “It’s a cliché. He’s useless, and hot-headed, and a complete fool, but what can I say? He swept me off my feet.”

Inar moved closer to her, her eyes sparkling.

“So you _are_ runaways,” she gushed. “Oh, how romantic.” 

Athera tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and grinned sheepishly. 

“Most people don’t think so,” she said, dropping her voice sadly. “My clan kicked me out, and we couldn’t stay in the alienage afterwards. It just didn’t feel right.”

Inar’s expression softened in sympathy.

“So you’ve been living in the forest together since?” She guessed, and Athera nodded.

“Solas is a dreamer,” she said, leaning forward as though confiding a secret. “He sleeps in ruins and seeks lost memories, and one day, he plans to write the history of what he’s discovered. With my help, of course.”

The lies came easily, and Inar listened in rapt attention, as Athera spun a tale of stumbling upon the sleeping mage while hunting; of how she’d been frightened at first, but then crept away from her clan to meet with him each night, as he told her impossible stories and shared wine with her by the fire, and they laid together under the stars.

When she got to the bit where Solas – supposedly – had begged her to travel with him across Thedas, with no-one but the two of them to decide where they’d go, her new friend actually _sighed_ , as though all of the romance in the world was contained in her tale.

“But then, a few days ago, he slipped through the roof of Mythal’s shrine, just a little to the north of here,” she said, her mouth tightening with worry. “I fixed his leg as best I could, but he broke some ribs and hit his head, I think.”

Her fingers shook as she finished peeling the fruit, and Inar reached out and laid a hand on her knee, her face a picture of sympathy.

“Since then, his dreams have been terrible.”

Just as she’d hoped, Inar clapped her hands over her mouth in shock.

“You think he was sleepwalking!” She concluded. “Last night, when he came into the camp?”

She chewed her lip in what she hoped was a convincing display of uncertainty, and then nodded quickly.

“Fenarel said he walked in here naked,” she said. “And, well, we do usually sleep that way...”

This time, Inar blushed, and Athera stifled a grin.

“I worry that he got caught up in his dreams, and when he woke up surrounded by strange people-”

“-He got confused and attacked the camp,” Inar breathed. “Oh, how awful!”

“You don’t think…” She looked away, feigning hesitation. “You don’t think the council will want to punish him, do you? I don’t know if I could bear to lose him.”

It was a mark of how exhausted she was, that the tears came quickly to her eyes, and Inar took both of her hands in hers and squeezed, hard.

“Oh, I’m sure they won’t!” She reassured her. “They couldn’t! Even with Merrill and-” She broke off, and then smiled to cover her mistake. “Even with what we’ve been through recently, your dreamer didn’t do much damage, and I’m sure hahren wouldn’t be so cruel.”

Athera looked down, blinking hard to force a single tear down her cheek, and that was apparently the final straw. Inar’s soft expression turned determined, and the woman took her by the shoulders sternly.

“Now, don’t you worry,” she said. “I will talk to the council members. Junar will speak up for your dreamer, and so will Ilen, I’m sure of it.”

“And Fenarel?” She asked, proud of how her voice caught in her throat. “Do you think he will show mercy?”

“I’m certain of it. Fen has borne the brunt of our troubles since… Well, since things went so wrong, but he’s a fair man at heart. I’m sure he wouldn’t want to cause you pain. We’ve seen more than our fair share of it recently, but that’s no reason to spread it to others if we can help it.”

“Oh, _thank you_ ,” she said, flinging her arms around the woman’s shoulders. “I know it’s so silly, but I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him.”

“I understand,” Inar said kindly, returning her hug. “If anything happened to my Maren, I’d be heartbroken too. Don’t you worry. We’ll see you and your love safe and sound, believe me.”

By the time breakfast was served, half the camp was whispering about the star-crossed love affair between the Dalish hunter and the mysterious dreamer, and Athera caught Inar’s eye across the fire and smiled warmly, even as a shiver of guilt hollowed out her stomach.

One week with the Dread Wolf, and apparently she was weaving falsehoods with the expertise of an Orlesian spy. 

It went against a primal part of her conscience to lie to someone so trusting. But if the difference between Solas being allowed to go free, and Solas being dosed with magebane until he could hardly breathe was as simple as a lie to a kind woman, then she would choose the lie every time.

And, knowing who could be persuaded towards friendship and who would dig their heels in, was a skill she’d honed a long time ago.

With Inar’s favour, she was quickly introduced to Maren, a pretty woman with a shock of red hair, and the clan’s halla keeper. 

“Know anything about feeding?” She asked, in lieu of a greeting.

“No, but I was my clan’s healer for a time, if you have need of one.”

The woman observed her shrewdly.

“Is that so? Alright then, come with me.”

Maren lead her to the outskirts of the camp, where a pregnant halla was pacing within a small pen, her laboured breaths sending out plumes of steam into the cold air.

“The pains started early yesterday morning,” Maren told her. “I thought we’d see some movement over night, but she’s not progressing the way she ought to be.”

Athera climbed over the fence and knelt down, holding out her hand and taking a deep breath of the familiar scent of straw and trees that reminded her so strongly of home. Cautiously, the halla sniffed at her fingers, her warm nose nuzzling against her as she decided she was safe.

“Ma serannas, da’len,” Athera smiled. “Mind if I take a look at you?”

As if she understood, the halla stopped her pacing, a light sheen of sweat brightening her fur and her muscles trembling. Athera raised her hands, sending a probing wash of magic through the animal and reaching out with her arcane sense. 

“The calf is in the right position,” she said, her gaze half on Maren and half reaching into the field of magic that lingered beneath the material plane. “Mamae’s tired and a little dehydrated, but…”

She broke off, frowning, as something sickly and sweet and _wrong_ pushed up against her perception. Maren caught the change in her, and leant over the fence.

“What is it?”

Athera didn’t answer. The sense of sickness felt unnatural, and her attempts to isolate it were met with a profound feeling of disquiet that tugged at her mana. 

“Give me a moment. It’s strange. I…”

Her skin paled and she retracted her magic with a snap, realisation hitting her like a wave.

“ _Fenedhis_.”

Maren’s eyes widened.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Ir abelas,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. This halla has the taint.”

The halla keeper’s face drained of colour, and then she put her head into her hands and let loose a stream of such creative curses, that Athera very nearly congratulated her on them.

When she’d eventually calmed, she raised her head to look at the halla with an expression that bordered on heartbreak.

“She was the only one pregnant this season,” she said softly. “I don’t understand. How could she have caught the taint? What do we do?”

Athera climbed quietly out of the pen and shook her head.

“It’s possible she ate something nearby that was infected during the last Blight,” she said. “If I were you, I’d double-check their feeding areas, and move them to somewhere new just in case. She’ll need to be put out of her misery soon, before the corruption spreads.”

“And the calf?” Maren asked hesitantly. “Could it survive?”

She shook her head, her face creasing in sympathy.

“I’m sorry, but if the taint’s in the blood then the calf is already infected.”

“ _Fenedhis_.”

They stared at the halla in silence for a long moment, and then Maren put her head in her hands.

“Do you believe in curses, lethallan?” She asked heavily, and Athera considered her answer carefully before replying.

“I believe in cause and effect,” she said at last. “And I believe that a long run of bad luck can encourage us to look for supernatural explanations, when we fear taking responsibility for our own part in the world.”

Maren smiled thinly.

“That was almost wise,” she chuckled. “Are you sure you weren’t your clan’s Keeper?” 

“I’d have made a terrible Keeper,” she replied, smiling. “No patience for fools.”

Maren laughed and nodded understandingly.

“Still, there is truth in what you say. Recently, it seems as though we’ve had one terrible thing happen after another. And there’s a bad omen to be found in a mother’s body killing the child it carries.”

For a moment, Athera felt as though someone had taken hold of her lungs and simply stopped them from moving. There was no air, only a crushing, cold sensation wrapped around her chest. 

“But I think you’re right,” Maren continued, oblivious. “Bad luck is compounded when people behave poorly.”

Athera recovered her ability to breathe, and she inhaled deeply and scrambled to keep up with the turns the conversation was taking.

“And have people here been behaving poorly, do you think?” She asked.

The other woman nodded.

“Since we lost the Keeper and our First? Definitely,” she replied. “Truth be told, we were unravelling before then. The Keeper was caught up in other problems, and it left the running of the camp to those of us who had no training in it. People did their best, but the strain is still there. We’ve moved from place to place, seeking more permanent areas, but everywhere we go is either already claimed, or uninhabitable. It makes people scared.”

“And frightened people do terrible things when they feel threatened,” Athera concluded.

Maren nodded, her gaze distant.

“And now the halla have sickened,” she said. “The hahren’s going to take this badly.”

Athera made a non-committal noise in her throat.

“I think I’ve already experienced that,” She said.

Maren gave her a look that was equal parts sympathetic and guilty.

“Ir abelas,” she offered. “I heard what Paviel did to your dreamer. It was poorly done, but you should know that most of the clan feel badly about it.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Athera said softly. “I know he caused a scare last night, but he truly meant no harm.”

Maren studied her closely, and then nodded in agreement.

“For what it’s worth, I believe you. And I think the council will decide the same this evening. The hahren hasn’t been the same since we lost Merrill.”

“Your Keeper?” Athera hid her knowledge guiltily.

“Our First,” Maren corrected. “They were close, once upon a time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, but thank you all the same.”

She stood straighter then, and Athera sensed the ending of their talk.

“Do you think the other halla are safe?”

“Hopefully,” she said. “I can check them over later if you like, just to be sure.”

“I would appreciate that,” Maren replied, and then smiled good-naturedly. “And since I’m on the council, I promise it would work in your favour.”

Athera returned her smile gratefully.

“Thank you. Would you…” She hesitated, looking back towards the pen. “Would you like me to help?”

But Maren shook her head, watching the labouring halla sadly.

“No, it is my duty. I will see it done. And I expect your dreamer will be missing you soon.”

Athera cast her eyes towards the sky, noting that the sun had risen high enough for it to be nearly lunchtime. 

“I expect you’re right,” she agreed. “I’ll go check on him. But let me know if I can help you with anything later.”

Maren waved her away with a smile, and Athera wandered back towards the camp. Unlike her lies to Inar, the offer of her help was genuine. Clan Sabrae might have cast out her friend and hurt her - well, her _Dread Wolf_ , she supposed, with a disbelieving shake of her head – but Inar had been kind, and in another world, she could see herself becoming firm friends with Maren.

She had not fallen so far from her Dalish roots that the sight of a clan in trouble didn’t move her to try and aid it, even if she _had_ brought the Dread Wolf inside.

Rubbing a weary hand over her eyes, she passed back into the camp, feeling inexplicably calm considering the number of disasters that had befallen her over the last few days. It was difficult to feel unease in a place that felt so similar to home.

Children ran between the aravels. The craftsman – Ilen, she remembered – nodded to her as she passed his table. Inar was laughing with another woman she didn’t recognise outside the open canvas of a tent, and the scent of hearthcakes cooking on slate filled the air.

If she forgot, for a moment, that Fen’Harel was sleeping in an aravel, it was almost idyllic.

As she soaked in the atmosphere, hahren Paivel stepped outside, his eyes finding hers across the clearing. She looked back at him steadily.

There was something calculating about the man; a perceptiveness and a sharp edge that made her wary. He raised his hand to her in a gesture that could almost have been friendly, were it not for the hard line of his mouth.

She returned the gesture and then quickly averted her gaze, eager to escape whatever inscrutable assessment he thought she deserved. 

That was when she heard the screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry; I couldn't resist the cliffhanger!


	8. Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas has bad dreams and Athera learns the truth.

She had heard the phrase _shattered the peace_ before. What she had never realised, was that something could both shatter peacefulness and, at the same time, induce absolute calm. The Dalish camp, previously a bustle of activity and life, froze as though someone had simply pressed pause on the world and everything in it.

Children stopped playing. Adults became statues, halted in the midst of cooking, or crafting, or conversation. Even the halla seemed to fall silent and the wind disappear. For a long moment, the only sound was hearthcakes sizzling and the crackling of the fire; and piercing screams so desperate, so hopelessly agonised, that she could scarcely imagine the kind of horrors that might have caused them.

In the space of five heartbeats, when everything was still, Athera had the time to consider three things.

First, that those screams belonged to Solas.

Second, that someone must have been hurting him.

And third, that she would tear apart whoever had pulled those sounds from his throat.

On the sixth heartbeat, the camp began to break from its horrified tableux, and then she was running, her feet kicking up grass and adrenaline lighting a fire in her veins.

_He was screaming._

She reached the door to Merrill’s aravel before anyone else had so much as moved, and then she was pulling it open and stepping inside, drawing on magic enough to burn the intruder where they stood without so much as a thought.

Except there was no-one inside.

Instead, Solas was arched off the bed, his hands and feet thrashing violently and his mouth gaping open in a desperate shriek, as though all of the horrors of the world were there in the room and he was at their mercy.

It took her a single second for her mind to connect the dots.

The Dread Wolf was an ancient dreamer. Magebane stopped dreamers from being able to control the Fade.

The Dread Wolf was trapped in a nightmare; and she didn’t even want to imagine the kind of nightmares that could make an ancient god make sounds of such terror.

In three long strides, she was across the room and gripping him by his shoulders.

“ _Solas_ ,” she called urgently, shouting over his screams. “Solas, wake up!”

He didn’t seem to hear her, his body thrashing and his chest glistening with sweat as the horrified cries continued to tear from his throat. 

“ _Solas!_ ”

“What’s wrong with him?”

She turned towards the doorway, struggling to keep her grip on him as she met Inar’s frightened gaze.

“It’s the magebane,” she said quickly. “It stops a dreamer from being able to control the Fade.”

“And he was already having nightmares!” Inar exclaimed, clapping her hands over her mouth in sympathy.

For once, Athera was glad she’d lied, especially when even more shocked faces began to appear in the doorway behind her, craning for a better view.

“Inar, can you explain and keep everyone out?” She asked urgently. “I need to calm him.”

The woman nodded, turning immediately to usher the spectators away and shutting the door firmly behind her. But Solas still wouldn’t wake.

Cursing, Athera cast silencing wards around the room and then sank down onto the edge of the bed, narrowly avoiding being punched in the head as the Dread Wolf let loose another howl and attempted to launch himself onto the floor.

“Solas, you have to wake up!” She tried again, her panic rising as she noticed blood dripping through his fingers where his nails had bitten into his palms.

_He was still screaming._

Before she could think better of it, she picked up the pale of water by his bed, and in one swift movement, dumped half of its contents over his head.

The effect was instant. His screams shut off, spluttering, and wild eyes snapped open as he heaved himself into a sitting position and began to lash out blindly, still tangled in the dream. She wrapped her arms around him, trapping his hands at his side as he struggled.

“Solas, it’s alright,” she said. “You’re safe. It’s alright.”

He fought, another scream building in his chest, but she tightened her grip and held on grimly.

“ _Breathe_ ,” she urged him. “Just breathe.”

He did, sucking in a deep breath, and then another, until all at once, he fell still. She tensed as he pressed his nose to her neck, inhaling purposefully, and then all of the fight went out of him at once. All of a sudden, instead of trying to push her away, he locked his arms around her and crushed her to him as though she was the only thing holding him to the earth.

A horrified, keening noise rose in his throat, and she suddenly found that she had her arms full of a sobbing, trembling Dread Wolf, whose only purpose in life seemed to be to get as close to her as was physically possible.

“They found me,” he sobbed, his face pressed into her neck and his fingers leaving bruises on her back. “They found me, and I couldn’t stop them.”

Whatever else he wanted to say was lost in a wave of tears, and she held him tightly while he shook and cried against her, his hands fisting through her tunic and his face buried in her shoulder. 

“It’s ok,” she soothed. “You’re safe. It’s alright. Just breathe.”

She let him cling onto her for what felt like an age, murmuring nonsense words of comfort into his ear and rubbing circles on his back while his sobs gradually quieted, and he trembled soundlessly in her arms.

This was certainly not the Dread Wolf the Dalish histories had promised her.

Slowly, she loosened her grip on him, still holding him close but letting him adjust to the waking world once more. For a long while, he kept his arms rigid around her back. But then he seemed to master himself, and cautiously pulled away, until his hands gripped her elbows loosely and she held the top of his arms.

He kept his head bowed, his shoulders still shaking with gentle sobs and tears still spilling down his cheeks, and this time, Athera didn’t bother to suppress the overwhelming urge to comfort him.

Very gently, as though soothing a frightened animal, she reached up and cupped his face between her hands, wiping his tears away with her thumbs and whispering words of comfort. He closed his eyes and his hands slid to her hips and held on, as by degrees, he regained control of himself, and pressed his cheek against her palm.

When he finally looked up at her, there was an embarrassed pink flush sitting high in his cheeks, but his eyes were exhausted and haunted, and he didn’t push her away.

She smiled gently at him, her thumb sweeping along his jaw.

“Foolish wolf,” she whispered, and he choked out a laugh and leant towards her imperceptibly.

“Ir abelas,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “I fear that all I’ve done since I’ve met you is bleed and cry.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said. “You’ve also done a fair amount of flailing about and back-seat nug cooking.”

This prompted an honest, if shaky, laugh from him, and she grinned and took his hands in hers, ignoring, for the moment, the blood drying over his skin. 

“Even so, I feel I must apologise,” he said softly. “I have never been one for displays of emotion, but returning to the world again is proving…”

He trailed off, his gaze distant.

“Difficult?” She prompted. “Unpleasant?”

He looked at her.

“ _Horrifying_ ,” he whispered.

She squeezed his hands and he returned the gesture, leaning over so that his forehead rested on her shoulder. They stayed that way for long minutes, the only sound their own quiet breathing, until she rested her cheek on his head and brought her arms around him again.

“Tell me what happened,” she said quietly.

He didn’t answer. In fact, he was silent for so long that she thought he hadn’t heard her, but then his arms came around her waist, and he tilted his head to speak against her neck. 

“I told you that I locked the Evanuris away,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t tell you why.”

He was tense, and she ghosted her fingertips across his back until he relaxed again.

“I wanted to show you,” he murmured. “It will be difficult for you to believe, otherwise. You may think me a liar, although I swear it’s the truth.”

“I’m currently sitting in an aravel with my arms around the Dread Wolf,” she said wryly. “Credit me with some small ability to believe in the impossible after the week we’ve had, won’t you?”

The soft chuckle he made against her skin was brittle and heart breaking in its sadness, but he seemed to be considering her words.

“I told you before that I was not a god,” he said at last. “And you said that it depended on how you define one. In the days of Arlathan, the Evanuris were worshipped as gods, but it was a falsehood even then.”

She let out a long breath, bracing herself for what was to come.

“It started with a war,” Solas said, his voice hollow. “The Evanuris were powerful mages. Even in a world where magic was as natural as breathing, they were revered for their strength and skill. Once, they were generals. And then, over time, they became rulers, kings, and queens. Reality became myth. War bred a desire for simplicity. Right and wrong. Good and evil. Chains of command. Eventually, they became known as gods.”

She held her tongue as tightly as she held the Dread Wolf, her mind spinning over the implications of what he was saying. In less than a minute, he had already chipped away the bedrock of her beliefs and scattered them to the winds.

“But the Evanuris, with the exception of Mythal, were greedy. They coveted more power even as the whole world bowed to them. They warred amongst themselves and the Forgotten Ones, and the People suffered for it. Slaves were stolen, slaughtered, worked to death, and in a world of immortality, there was no escape.”

She felt the air leave her body in a rush.

“The Evanuris kept slaves?” She repeated dully.

“The atrocities committed by the Evanuris were beyond counting by the end. But yes, they kept slaves.”

“And you opposed them?” She inferred.

“Not at first. Mythal and I worked together. She was the best of them. A shining beacon of hope who cared for and protected her people. Together, we tried to curb the worst excesses of her children and the other false gods.”

Outwardly, Athera was calm, borne aloft on a sea of carefully maintained rationality, while beneath it, she felt like she was drowning. Gods she had prayed to. Entreated for help. Pledged herself in service to as soon as she was old enough to lead her own hunts. How could they have been tyrants, no better than Tevinter?

“You said-” Her voice sounded distant to her own ears. “-You said the other Evanuris murdered Mythal.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Eventually, they grew tired of the limitations she imposed on them, and she was slain. Elgar’nan was innocent of the crime, but in his grief, he slaughtered thousands beyond reckoning. With Mythal gone, a war raged between the Forgotten Ones and the Evanuris. I had no doubt that, if left alive, they would destroy the world.”

“But you didn’t kill them,” she pointed out. “You only locked them away.”

“I _couldn’t_ kill them,” he corrected. “Mythal’s people rallied to me, and so did others who feared the madness of the Evanuris. I staged a rebellion, and broke the chains of any who wished to follow me. But it wasn’t enough. The world was burning.”

She felt his breath, hot against her neck, as the tone of his voice became more desperate; pleading, she thought, for her to understand.

“We couldn’t win, but neither could we give in. To do so would have doomed the People to death. And so, I told them that I planned to surrender, and suggested to the Evanuris and the Forgotten Ones that each were ready to do the same. I bid them to meet me in the Void, the empty realm beyond the touch of dreamers. And then I created the Veil, sundering the waking world from the Fade, and trapping them behind it.”

She couldn’t help the disbelieving sound that escaped her.

“ _You_ created the Veil?” She breathed. “But…”

He turned his head slightly, listening.

“But _you can’t even catch your own nugs for dinner_ ,” she said at last, drawing a surprised burst of laughter from him that tickled against her ear and made her face feel warm.

“I was significantly more powerful before I’d spent the last few millennia asleep,” he said dryly, and then she felt his hands clench against her and he fell silent once more.

Her mind clamoured with so many questions she felt dizzy. 

_How did he do it? Were the gods really so terrible? If the Fade used to be part of the world, what had it been like? Was the Veil safe? Could the gods come back? If they did, would they try to destroy everything again? Why, after 5,000 years had the Dread Wolf finally woken?_

She didn’t ask any of them. Instead, she said softly:

“Your nightmares were about the Evanuris.”

He shivered and held her more tightly.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “You must understand, that the Fade is my natural home. Nightmares are rare, and when they come, I can always redirect them. I have never been in the position of losing control so absolutely.”

She ran her hand down his back soothingly.

“What happened, Solas?”

“They found me,” he whispered. “All of them. Andruil, with her love of blood sport. Ghilan’nain with her monsters and her madness. Falon’din’s dead rising from their graves, Elgar’nan’s surgical brutality. And the Forgotten Ones, Anaris and Geldauran and Daern’thal, who were already ancient in Elvhenan’s time.”

He drew in a shaky breath, his voice thick.

“They came for me. Broke out of the Black City. They were… Crazed. They had spent millennia in plotting and madness, and I could do nothing to escape.”

She squeezed him closer and he returned her gesture in kind.

“They tortured me,” he murmured. “And I knew, as it was happening, that it would never end. That they would never let me die. That they would keep me alive and in agony for millennia and I would never, ever be free. But it was worse even than that.”

She swallowed back a wave of nausea.

“What could possibly be worse than that?” She wondered.

“A cage,” he choked. “A place in the farthest reaches of the Void, where not even spirits tread. They chained me, left me alone in the dark, and I knew that I would go mad before they let me out. It felt like decades went by, with nothing but the darkness. I tore at the chains until I was bloody, but I couldn’t break free.” 

He pushed himself closer to her, seeking comfort in a primal way as his voice dropped to a whisper. 

“I screamed and I screamed, but no-one came. I was to be alone forever. And no-one came.”

She only realised he was crying again when she felt hot tears dripping down her neck, and she squeezed him tightly against her and swallowed the lump in her throat.

“I came,” she said at last. “When I heard you screaming. I came.”

He drew in a ragged breath, and suddenly his grip on her was bruising, and his face was pressed into her shoulder.

“I know,” he replied in a choked voice. “I know. Ma serannas. _Thank you_. I will never be able to thank you enough. You could have left me. So many times, you could have left me, and you didn’t.”

She shook her head.

“Foolish wolf,” she said softly, and held him until his tears had dried.

When he was settled quietly against her again, she pulled back to look at him. He released her reluctantly and met her gaze with open vulnerability, his eyes red and his skin pale. She got the impression that he was waiting for her to pass judgement on him; and that he expected it to be cruel.

She shook her head slowly, trying to organise her thoughts. But there was just so much to consider, she didn’t know where to begin.

“I don’t know where to start,” she said honestly. “I could ask questions for months and still never be done.”

She looked down at his bloodied hands, and took them gently in her own.

“For now,” she said quietly. “I believe you when you say you had no choice. It will take me longer to process everything else, but…” She drew a deep breath in. “I don’t think you’re a monster. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

His hands clenched suddenly on hers, and she looked up to find him gazing at her in open shock.

“I was sure…” He murmured. “I was so certain you would cast me aside. Can it really be so simple?”

He shook his head disbelievingly.

“What manner of creature are you, that you could hear something like that and still offer me comfort? If I didn’t know any better, I would be convinced that someone had placed you in my path on purpose.”

She laughed at him, retrieving one of the strips of Merrill’s shirt and dipping it into what remained of the water by their side.

“If that were the case, I would be quite insulted if I were you,” she said, taking one of his hands and gently cleaning the blood away. “An ancient Elvhen god wakes up in the Free Marches, and all he gets is a runaway hunter with holes in her leggings? You should at least be entitled to a chevalier.”

It was a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, but when she looked up again, he was gazing into the distance, his expression somehow both fierce and lost in equal measure. That she could be the cause of such a look from the Dread Wolf, made her feel vaguely off-balance, and she finished cleaning his hands in silence, and sent a wash of healing magic through the skin to close the crescent-shaped wounds on his palms.

She didn’t want to examine what he’d told her yet. She wasn’t sure how she could process his revelations, or even whether she would be able to ask the right questions. The world had turned on its axis and thrown her off the edge, and it would take a little longer yet to claw her way back on.

And they still had the problem of the Dalish council to contend with. 

She eased herself onto the bed and sat back against the wall, her legs dangling over the edge. Solas was still sitting with one leg on the floor and the other folded beneath him, staring into the middle distance as though he was in shock. She supposed that, given his torments in the Fade, he might actually be in shock.

“Oh, by the way,” she said, attempting to draw him back to the room. “You and I are star-crossed lovers now.”

Just as she’d hoped, his head snapped round to face her, his mouth forming a perfect o of surprise. 

“I beg your pardon?”

She laughed, bringing a blush to his cheeks that was surprisingly endearing.

“It seemed like the best way to garner sympathy before the council,” she smiled.

“Ah,” he replied. “I see.”

His brow furrowed, and she cocked her head to study him.

“Does it bother you?”

He sighed.

“No, it is a sensible choice, given our circumstances,” he said. “But I would have thought it might bother _you_. Despite my behaviour, I am not unaware that this week has been difficult for you. Pretending to be in love with the Dread Wolf must be… Uncomfortable.”

She frowned. Truthfully, she hadn’t even considered it. She had needed some way to make him seem sympathetic to the clan and this was simply the first idea that had presented itself. And really, he wasn’t the same Dread Wolf she’d grown up hearing stories about. That Dread Wolf had been a monster. This one was something else entirely. 

She shrugged.

“Not really,” she said. “I just needed a way to keep you safe.”

She ignored the way his gaze softened. Instead, she shifted along the wall to make room for him next to her.

“Besides, the clan’s got bigger problems than you at the moment. Sit with me. I need to fill you in on Clan Sabrae.”

He obliged at once, mirroring her position and pressing his arm against hers, his hand coming up to rest lightly on her forearm. She supposed that, after the week he’d had, she couldn’t begrudge him that small comfort.

“Tell me,” he said, and she did.

She told him all she knew about the clan. Of how their Keeper had been possessed by a demon, of how Merrill had been cast out for blood magic. She told him about Inar and Maren and the tainted halla. And she elaborated on their hastily constructed back-story, and fought a blush when he chuckled. 

When she was done, they were both exhausted, but Solas didn’t seem to want to sleep, and Athera was too nervous about the council to try. Instead, they sat in weary silence, listening to the sounds of the camp outside their walls, and watching the sun fade from the sky.

Neither of them mentioned that, during the hours they waited for the knock at the door, he never once let go of her arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dread Wolf is really not having a good week.


	9. Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Sabrae hold a council to decide how to punish Solas. It's tense.

It was dark when Inar finally came to get them. Athera had dozed lightly against Solas’ shoulder for an hour, waking only once when the Dread Wolf leapt out of his skin and nearly flew off the bed, having almost nodded off himself. She supposed she couldn’t really blame him for not wanting to enter the Fade again just yet, but she would have liked to have slept for longer.

By the time the knock at the door came, they were both tense. Solas slipped into his tunic without a word, and Athera drew in a deep breath before answering. She smiled when she saw Inar waiting nervously outside.

“Fenarel says the council’s ready,” she said. “Is your dreamer ok?”

Solas stepped up behind her, his hands clasped in front of him and his expression guarded.

“He’s ok,” Athera smiled. “He’ll be better when he can get some sleep without the magebane in his system.”

Inar looked up at him sympathetically.

“Ir abelas,” she said. “You should know, most of the camp think hahren Paivel was wrong to treat you that way.”

“Tel’abelas,” Solas replied, his voice still hoarse from his screams. “I judge only the hahren for his actions, not you or your clan.”

Inar smiled gratefully as they stepped out and fell into step at her side. The edges of the camp were quiet, but when they rounded another aravel and came face-to-face with the council up ahead, Athera’s nerves grew. 

The entire clan numbered around thirty people, it seemed, and all of them were there. Most were sitting in silence on the grass behind the fire, their faces cast in shadow, but six sat on logs arranged around the firepit, watching them steadily as they approached. 

She recognised Maren, who gave her a small smile when they drew near. She was sitting next to the craftsman, Ilen, with Fenarel and Paivel opposite, and a young woman bearing Mythal’s vallaslin next to them. On Maren’s other side, was a young man Athera took to be Junar, his hunter’s bow propped up against his legs.

A single stool was positioned in front of them facing the crowd, and fire torches surrounded the gathering, casting a flickering light over the grass. The mood was sombre but charged, like the breath before a dive, and Athera laced her fingers with Solas’ when they came to a stop by the fire.

It was, she thought, in keeping with their cover story. After all, what kind of person wouldn’t want to comfort the man they loved in a situation like this? But the fierceness with which he gripped her hand in return took her by surprise, and she sent him an assessing glance out of the corner of her eye.

On the surface, he appeared perfectly calm – his head held proudly as he faced the gathered camp. But the tightness in his jaw and the hard line of his mouth gave him away, and Athera squeezed his hand reassuringly as Inar joined the rest of the crowd, and Fenarel started to speak.

“En’an’sal’en,” he began. “We, Clan Sabrae, welcome our cousin, Athera, and the dreamer, Solas, to our council. We meet tonight to determine whether a punishment should be given to the mage who attacked our camp without provocation, and, if a punishment is required, what form it will take.”

Hahren Paivel watched Solas with the look of a predator, and Athera ran her thumb in gentle circles over the back of his hand in an attempt to lessen the tension she could feel building in his posture. 

“Tonight, the dreamer will be allowed to speak for himself, as will his esha, Athera. The council will deliberate in the open, where all clan members can hear the arguments and judge the decision we reach,” Fenarel said.

He smiled and gestured towards the stool.

“Please, take a seat. Athera will join the clan until it is her turn to speak.”

The grip Solas had on her hand was vice-like, and she followed his gaze across the fire to see Paivel clutching a vial of magebane over his knee. Her back went rigid with fury, but she kept her expression calm.

“If the council would be so kind, I’d like to stay with him,” she said lightly. “And I would appreciate it if the hahren would put down the magebane he’s holding. Solas has had more than enough of it to be of no threat to you now, I think the clan will agree.”

Fenarel’s gaze dropped to the hahren’s hands, and she was satisfied to see a flash of anger cross his face when he saw that she was right. But it was Maren who took charge of the situation with a disgusted shake of her head, as she rose to her feet and brought Athera a stool to place alongside Solas’. 

“Mythal’s mercy, hahren,” the halla keeper said loudly. “Put that down. We’ll have no more need of it tonight.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the watching crowd, and the hahren’s face twisted in frustration before he quickly schooled his expression into a smile.

“Ir abelas,” he said, his light tone failing to match the steel in his eyes. “Forgive an old man his worries. Of course, I’m sure your friend means us no harm.”

“He doesn’t.”

The hahren inclined his head, setting the magebane down and folding his hands in front of himself in a posture that could almost have been relaxed, were it not for the way his knuckles turned white with the strength of his grip. 

Athera and Solas took their seats in silence. She had wanted to present a relaxed manner to the council, but that was proving difficult, owing to the fact that the Dread Wolf didn’t seem to want to let go of her hand.

She was going to have to add _clingy_ to his list of surprising faults; just as soon as they got out of the camp.

“Well then,” Fenarel said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Now that’s been taken care of, to the charges. We, Clan Sabrae, charge the dreamer, Solas, with attacking our camp, unprovoked, after having received aid in the form of clothes and food from the clan. The attack resulted in the destruction of two tents and the possessions inside, and involved the misuse of magic.”

He fixed Solas with a cold glare.

“It is by little more than luck that the tents were unoccupied at the time. If they weren’t, the consequences could have been far more serious. I hope you both understand that while this may seem extreme to you, protecting the clan is my ultimate concern.”

“We understand, lethallin,” Athera said sincerely.

She felt Solas stiffen at her side, but the problem was, she really _did_ understand. Without a Keeper, Clan Sabrae was drifting, rudderless through the world. The life of a Dalish elf was nomadic, but each clan had particular places they returned to again and again; safe-havens of wilderness that welcomed them each season.

Only when the shems grew tired of their return to familiar grounds did they seek somewhere entirely new, and that usually meant finding only one new site every couple of years. In this, the Keeper and First would consult with the halla keeper and others who had particular knowledge of the area, and the rest of the clan would simply follow.

To be entirely adrift was rare, and under the stress of finding new pastures, she couldn’t blame them for reacting with fear when Solas strolled in and started setting things on fire. She was still furious with the hahren, but she did understand why they hadn’t simply been allowed to leave. 

“Do you deny these events?” Fenarel asked, directing his question to Solas.

The Dread Wolf’s throat rasped when he spoke.

“I do not.”

“Then do you have anything to say in your defence?”

Athera squeezed his hand, more to reassure herself than him. She’d given him as many details of her hastily-constructed lie as she could, but whether or not he could make himself seem sympathetic was another matter entirely. 

He swallowed hard before answering.

“Firstly,” he croaked. “I would like to offer my sincere apologies.”

_Good_ , she thought fervently. 

“I’m afraid my memory of the night is still somewhat confused, but the thought that I accepted aid from your clan, only to cause distress in return, shames me greatly.”

She squeezed his hand again; a promise that he was doing well.

“I believe Athera has told you that I’m a dreamer, and also that I was injured recently.”

His throat cracked, and he swallowed and wet his lips. She snuck a glance towards him, and noticed that he still looked horribly pale and weak. Had he last eaten when they were still in the cave? She made a mental note to find him some food as soon as they were done here.

“My injuries caused me… A great deal of distress,” he continued. “And although Athera told me that I’d started sleepwalking during my nightmares, I confess, I didn’t believe her until I woke up bound in your aravel.”

The hahren scoffed and Solas fell silent, watching him steadily.

“Would you seriously have us believe that you managed to walk into our camp, accept our hospitality, and set the tents on fire while sleepwalking?” He sneered. “You must take us for fools.”

“Not at all,” Solas replied smoothly. “But I am not in the habit of walking around naked and presenting myself to strangers in the middle of the night.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd, and Athera bit her tongue to keep from laughing as well. In actual fact, that is exactly what the Dread Wolf had done, but they certainly didn’t need to know that. They probably wouldn’t believe it anyway. 

Fenarel raised his hand for quiet.

“That is certainly a compelling point,” he said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “But how can we be sure that you were still asleep when the destruction was caused?”

“I fear that, in fact, I was awake for that part of the events,” Solas replied, and Athera squeezed his fingers so hard in warning that she was surprised he didn’t flinch.

“You don’t deny that you were awake when you set fire to our camp?” Paivel frowned.

“No,” Solas said. “I believe that I woke up, confused, and lashed out without being aware of my surroundings. My dreams have been… Violent, of late.”

This time, he tightened his grip on her hand, and Athera responded by running her thumb across his knuckles until he relaxed.

“I can only repeat my apologies,” he continued. “And assure you that it was not my intention to bring harm to your clan.”

Fenarel nodded, and then turned to Athera.

“Is there anything else you want to add before our council members speak?”

She sat straighter, looking out at the crowd.

“Only the same thing I’ve said before,” she said, raising her voice slightly so the rest of the clan could hear. “That Solas never meant you any harm, and that while we’ve been here, you’ve shown me nothing but kindness.”

She drew a deep breath in.

“It’s been a long time since I was welcome in my own clan. As strange as our meeting’s been, your camp has felt more like home to me than anywhere I’ve been since…”

She trailed off, as the flash of a warm cabin and the scent of woodsmoke rushed through her, stealing her breath for a moment before she forced it away.

“…well, for a long time,” she managed weakly. “I know your clan has suffered, and I’m sorry for that. But I also know the Dalish. I _am_ Dalish. And I know we care for our own. While Solas may not have come from a clan, he is my love. My heart.”

She ignored the rush of embarrassment that sang in her veins, and the suddenly rigid posture of the man at her side.

“He made a mistake, but surely you can see that he’s already been punished for it?”

She steeled herself, unlinking their hands to trail her fingers tenderly over his face. To his credit, he didn’t flinch, and instead gazed back at her with a gentle expression that would have been convincing, were it not for the mortification in his eyes. 

She turned back to the crowd, hoping that all of them had seen what she’d wanted them to; that although he was calm, his skin was still ashen and damp with sweat, as the last of the magebane faded from his blood. 

She took his hand again, and looked imploringly towards Fenarel.

“I suppose only you can decide whether or not he’s suffered enough.”

Silence reigned as she finished her speech, and her eyes darted between the council members and the watching clan. 

Maren was looking back at her with a small smile. Ilen considered her closely. Fenarel looked appropriately guilty. Junar was busy fiddling with his bow, and the woman bearing Mythal’s vallaslin was staring at Solas as though she wanted to wrap him in blankets and feed him soup until he started to look less sick; an impulse that Athera was becoming disconcertingly familiar with herself. 

But the hahren’s expression was calculating, and while the rest of the council spoke their piece, she couldn’t stop herself from watching him out of the corner of her eye, a sense of foreboding growing in her chest.

Ilen, Junar, and Maren sided with them instantly, and Athera let herself start to relax. To her surprise, the woman – Variel, Fenarel called her – also sided with them, arguing that anyone could see the dreamer was still sickened by magebane. Surely, she said, that should be enough for them? 

When she took her seat again, Solas offered her a tremulous little smile which would have been enough to break anyone’s heart, and it made Athera bite the inside of her cheek to keep from snorting with laughter at him.

The trickster wolf indeed, she thought. She hoped he hadn’t used that trick on her at some point.

But then it came to hahren Paivel, and the steel in his eyes seemed to cut through them as he got to his feet.

“You all know me,” he began. “And you know that I’ve always had the best interests of the clan at heart. I’ve known most of you since you were da’lens, sat on my knee listening to the tales of our People. Because that’s what I am: a storyteller, and the keeper of our history.”

Athera felt a wave of unease shudder down her spine.

“And, while you know me, I know all of you as well. I know that you’re good people. Kind people. And it’s to your credit that you want to show this apostate mercy. But before the council decides, I want to tell you a story.”

Solas had relaxed his grip on her hand, but now he shifted closer infinitesimally, his arm pressed alongside hers as the hahren spoke.

“It’s the story of a Keeper and an apprentice. Of a guardian and her charge. Of an old mage and a young mage. And of kindness that turned into tragedy.”

_Shit._

“Once, Clan Sabrae was strong. So strong, that we grew the Hero of Ferelden, here among the halla and aravels.”

He paused to allow the murmur of pride to ripple through the crowd.

“Then, we had a purpose. A mission. To seek the lost knowledge in the forgotten places of our People. But our knowledge came with a price,” he looked around at them, meeting their gaze. “In our pride, we stumbled across magic we had no business meddling in. We should have left it well alone. _Merrill_ , should have left it well alone.” 

At her name, a weighted silence fell, and Solas leant against Athera just a little more. She knew without looking at him that his eyes were focused on the magebane at Paivel’s feet, and that it wasn’t the clan he feared, but the Evanuris who stalked his dreams.

“Perhaps she would have done,” Paivel continued. “If we’d been firmer with her. If Marethari had the heart to reprimand her the way she should have done when she strayed into her blood mage madness.”

His lips twisted in a sneer, and Athera fought the urge to defend her friend, gripping Solas’ hand to anchor herself.

“But we were naïve. We believed the best of people. We believed in the judgement of our Keeper and our First. We believed the worst excesses of magic could be controlled. We were wrong.”

He drew himself up to his full height, and Athera felt the tide turning against them in the air.

“Despite all of her years, and all of her control, Marethari invited possession. Despite her passion for knowledge, in her pride, Merrill endangered us all in the pursuit of lost power. I say to you now, with a heavy heart, that this apostate here, sitting before you, is already dangerous.”

He turned his gaze to Solas.

“He may not mean to be. He may even be a good man, at heart. But that doesn’t change the fact that his nightmares nearly burnt down our camp. If left unchecked, who knows what damage he could do to others? Can we allow him to go free, only to wreak havoc on some other clan, some other people, later?”

In the quiet that followed, Athera felt her fury reach a boiling point, even as she struggled to refute any of Paivel’s claims. From his perspective, she could see how it looked. She could see how a dreamer, lashing out with magic, could be a threat. 

But it wasn’t as though she could say: _Please, don’t worry. He’s not really losing control of his magic. He’s just the Dread Wolf, and you have his necklace and he’d really like it back now please._

If they believed her, they’d be killed anyway. But more than likely, they’d simply think her mad. She wasn’t entirely sure that she wasn’t, come to think of it.

She felt the clan’s eyes on them; fear mixed with sadness mixed with guilt, and she didn’t know what to say.

She was saved from saying anything, when Solas began to speak.

“Would you have me bound in a Circle, hahren?” He said softly. “Kept compliant with magebane and imprisoned simply for who I am? It was my belief that the Dalish abhorred slavery. Or would you have me submit to the shemlen after all?” 

He looked at the gathered clan, and she would have thought him entirely unaffected by their stares, if it wasn’t for the bruising grip he had on her hand.

“Do I not deserve freedom too?”

Nobody answered, until Athera stood into the silence, relinquishing Solas’ hand to put herself between him and the clan, sheltering the Dread Wolf from their gaze. 

“The hahren is right to fear,” she said loudly.

The clan gasped, and she felt Solas turn rigid behind her.

“But his fear is pointed in the wrong direction. He thinks your clan was harmed by magic. By the pursuit of knowledge. By pride. But he’s wrong.”

She fixed him with a firm stare.

“Magic, on its own, isn’t dangerous. Knowledge, used properly, is a gift. The world is taught to fear mages, just as it’s taught to fear elves. But are the Dalish so much more violent than the shemlen? Is a mage so much more dangerous than a Templar?”

She looked out at them; her cousins, who stared at her in fear.

“What is dangerous, is ignorance. When we don’t understand something, we begin to fear it, and when we’re afraid, we do terrible things in the hope that they will keep us safe. They will _not_ keep you safe. The crueller you become to protect yourselves the more the world will come to fear you. And the more that people fear you, the crueller they will be in return.”

She let her gaze turn hopeful, staring into the eyes of the council members as they watched her in silence.

“You have a choice to make tonight. Not just about how you treat us, but about how you want to meet the world in the wake of tragedy. Will you become crueller? Will you close yourselves off, and retreat into your hurts like the savages the shemlen call us? Or will you be better than that?” She let her hands fall to her side. “Only you can decide.”

For a moment, everything was still. The air was calm. The halla were silent. She could hear the fire crackling and sense Solas at her back. And then it seemed as though the entire world let out a breath at once, and the tension broke.

Maren climbed to her feet and came to stand at Athera’s side.

“Our cousin has the right of it,” she said firmly. “We’ve been through a lot, and the chances are there’s more of it to come. But does that mean we forget our duty to others? Athera is our kin, and while her dreamer may not be Dalish, he is still one of the People. It seems to me that they might have been through a lot as well. Some of it-” Here, she turned to look meaningfully at the hahren. “-By our hand. I say that an accident is an accident, and we would do well to remember it.”

She levelled her gaze at Fenarel.

“We gain nothing with cruelty,” she said. “We have no need to punish them further.”

In the seconds that followed, the last traces of hostility fled from the camp, and Athera knew they’d won. But it was a quiet victory, weighted down with the clan’s pain and uncertainty, and sharpened by Paivel’s disbelieving glare.

“Ir abelas, hahren,” Fenarel said quietly. “They are right. I know you mean well, but we will not become monsters.” 

And with that, Solas was free.

He seemed dazed in the minutes that followed, pushed beyond the limits of exhaustion and stress, as Maren and Inar pressed bowls of stew into their hands and bid them to eat. The rest of the camp stayed at a distance while they sat by the fire, and when Solas had finished most of his food and started to fumble his spoon, Athera excused them and lead him back to Merrill’s aravel.

He leant on her heavily as they crossed the quiet camp, and when they finally made it inside and the door closed behind them, he sank down onto the bed as though his muscles had simply stopped working. 

She sent a wisp of light to hover at the ceiling and sat beside him, mirroring his position with her back to the wall, and taking in the sheen of sweat on his face and the trembling of his hands. 

“Are you ok?” She asked softly.

He turned to look at her, his face close to hers in the dim light and his expression unreadable.

“What you said, to the council,” he replied at last. “It was… It reminded me of someone. A friend.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but how many friends could you have after 5,000 years asleep?”

He chuckled lightly, and even that small action seemed to sap him of strength.

“My friend is a spirit of Wisdom. It has been a source of comfort and guidance to me for many years.”

She couldn’t help it; she laughed.

“You think I’m wise?” She grinned. 

“I think your argument was wise,” he corrected, a small smile on his lips.

“You’re just saying that because you thought I was going to hand you over to them,” she chided. “Go on. Admit it. For a moment there, you thought I would.”

She had meant it to be a simple joke, but the way his face crumpled made her breath catch, while he made an aborted move to take her hand, only to pull back at the last moment in embarrassment. He turned his face away from her, and she suddenly became very aware of quite how vulnerable he’d been, and of how much trust he’d put in her not to betray him.

One word from her was all it would have taken. The Dread Wolf was in no state to defend himself, and for a moment, she had held his life entirely in her hands.

“Ir abelas,” she said softly.

“Tel’abelas,” he replied. “I should not be so surprised when you save my life by now.”

He looked back at her, his expression hesitant.

“I am not used to being so weak,” he confessed. “And it has been a long time since I could trust someone.” He smiled slightly. “I’ll work on it.”

She shook her head.

“Foolish wolf.”

They sat for a moment in comfortable silence, and then Athera eased herself off the bed.

“Tomorrow, we figure out a way to get your necklace back,” she decided. “But now, we both need to get some sleep. You’re still sick so I’ll take the floor, but I am going to steal one of your pillows.”

He stood up in protest at once.

“No,” he insisted. “I’ve had the bed all day. And besides, I don’t think I could sleep yet. I’ll take the floor.”

She folded her arms defiantly.

“Solas, you’re exhausted. The magebane’s nearly out of your system, but you need to sleep.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted, and she would almost have believed him, if he hadn’t swayed on the spot and had to reach out a hand to steady himself against the bed.

“Yes, you certainly seem fine,” she said sarcastically, and then added more softly: “The nightmares won’t be so bad now, I’m sure. And if they are, I promise I’ll wake you.”

He studied her for a long moment, and then let out a breath as his shoulders slumped.

“Fine,” he agreed reluctantly. “But I’m still taking the floor.”

Before she could protest, the man in front of her blurred, until a wolf with charcoal grey fur stood in his place – only to promptly drop to the ground when his legs collapsed from under him.

“ _Fenedhis_ , Solas!” She hissed, dropping to her knees and placing her hand on his back.

“I said the magebane’s _nearly_ out of your system, not that you shouldn’t be careful.”

He whined a little in response, his muscles trembling.

“It’s more comfortable for me to sleep on the floor this way,” he insisted. “And now there’s no excuse for you not to take the bed.”

She huffed, shoving him gently in admonishment as she slipped beneath the blankets and the wolf curled up on the floor beside her. 

“Who knew the Dread Wolf was so chivalrous?” She murmured sleepily, her exhaustion catching up with her quicker than she’d expected.

“One more thing the Dalish got wrong,” he replied, grunting when she jabbed him with a finger in reproach.

“Hush,” she said. “Or this Dalish elf might get tired of saving your life, and then where would you be?”

It was, they both knew, an idle threat. And when she woke in the dark a few hours later, to the strained whimpers of a sleeping Dread Wolf, it seemed only natural to reach over the side of the bed and shake him firmly awake.

He woke with a start, a yelp in his throat and his muscles quivering as though he’d been running.

“Bad dreams?” She murmured, still half asleep, her hand resting on his back and idly smoothing his fur down where it stood on end.

She heard him breathe in, sniffing the air, and then a shocked gasp left her as she suddenly found herself sharing the bed with a very large, very fluffy, very shaky, very _insistent_ wolf.

“For Blight’s sake,” she complained, shifting back against the wall so the wolf in question could stretch out at her side and press himself against her. “You’re worse than a mabari.”

But it was hard to muster much anger when he snuffled, pressing a wet nose against her neck and letting out a plaintive whine, his body trembling. And he really was incredibly soft. 

She sighed, throwing an arm around his neck and pressing her face into his fur. 

“Go to sleep,” she yawned. “I’ve got you.”

She hugged him closer as he began to calm, and wound her fingers through his coat.

“You are so soft,” she smiled into the dark. “I’m going to write poems about how soft the Dread Wolf is, and you’ll never be able to show your face in villainous society again.”

He let out a low rumble that might have been a growl, and she nudged him with her shoulder in response.

“You better not be growling at me,” she warned. “Or I’m sending you back to the floor.” 

He fell still, and a few moments later, she felt his nose delicately bump against the underside of her jaw in a wordless apology. She couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her as she nestled more comfortably against him.

“You, Dread Wolf, are ridiculous.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this update took longer than usual! I got a bit lost with it but I THINK I found my way back?! 
> 
> Elvhen translations:
> 
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry  
> Tel'abelas - Don't be sorry  
> En’an’sal’en - Blessings/greetings  
> Esha - partner  
> Fenedhis - Wolf cock


	10. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas tells the Dalish they're nothing but shadows, and Athera abandons the Dread Wolf to his fate.

Despite the looming shadow of Paivel’s distrust, the next two days in the camp were the most relaxed Athera could remember having in a very long time. Solas, still weak, and apparently not much one for socialising, spent most of his time in the aravel, reading through the small collection of books Merrill had on her shelves and scrawling corrections in the margins.

Meanwhile, most of the clan seemed to be going out of their way to make Athera more welcome. She spent many hours sitting by Ilen as he manipulated iron bark into weapons, and recounting her – by now, incredibly convoluted – love story to a rotating and rapt audience of elves.

She even found herself enjoying the twists and turns she was taking with the tale: from the night Solas laid out a picnic under the stars; to the time the Keeper nearly stumbled upon them and they had to scale a tree to hide and stay there until dawn; to the tearful night her clan rejected her love and she fled to him under cover of darkness.

The more she told of it, the more they wanted to hear, until she had to actively avoid the subject of Solas and bring the conversation back to more practical things. Thankfully, this was easy, when there was so much to take care of.

Without a Keeper or a First, the clan were disorganised, and soon, Athera had swept into action to fix it. She showed the younger members how to recognise the most common herbs; she sat with Inar by the fire, preparing the food and ignoring the pain in her chest when Eshne reached out her chubby hands for her to hold; and she confirmed that none of the other halla were infected with the taint, and scouted new feeding grounds with Maren.

Within no time at all, she could almost pretend that this was her clan, and that the Dread Wolf wasn’t lounging around inside an aravel and becoming increasingly frustrated by the absence of his necklace.

The problem, though, came on the third day, when she coaxed Solas outside to eat lunch with them in the sun, instead of having her bring him his meals as though she was a servant to some convalescent god-king. 

At first, the Dread Wolf was polite, sitting by her side on the grass and seeming to savour the salad and soft halla cheese he was handed by Inar. But as they ate, surrounded by Inar, Maren, Junar, and some of the children, the conversation soon turned to the difference between Dalish and city elves, and whether or not Athera’s clan had been right to reject Solas as her lover.

“I’m just saying,” Junar said. “It’s different if a flat-ear actually wants to join a clan-”

Solas’ eyes narrowed and Athera tensed imperceptibly.

“-but there’s a reason the city elves and Dalish don’t often mix.”

“Oh?” Solas asked mildly. “And why is that?”

“Because the city elves have already submitted,” Maren replied confidently. “They accept the squalor in the alienages and the scraps thrown from the shems, and never try for anything better.”

“It’s true,” Junar agreed. “They remember none of the old ways. They worship the shem gods. Outside of the cities, they can barely care for themselves.”

Inar nodded.

“None of them are hunters,” she agreed. “And the mages end up in the Circles or serving their lords.”

“Not that we’re saying that’s what you’re like,” Maren added quickly. “Athera told us you’re something of a wandering apostate.”

She smiled, clearly trying to be friendly, but Athera could already see the tension in Solas’ jaw. Under the pretence of simply wanting to be closer to him, she shifted to his side and laid a hand on his knee in warning, but he didn’t relax his posture.

“Sure,” Junar agreed. “You’re probably more Dalish than city, at heart. But you didn’t try to join Athera’s clan, did you?”

Solas took a leisurely sip of water and she silently willed him to be diplomatic.

“And why should I want to?” He asked, his tone light but his eyes hard. “Are the Dalish so superior to me? Should I aspire to be more like you?”

Of course, she thought bitterly, the Dread Wolf wasn’t going to be diplomatic.

“If you care about the old ways, yes,” Junar said coolly. “We are the keepers of the old lore. The last of the Elvhen. We will not lose ourselves to the shems.”

At this, Solas let out a harsh bark of laughter, and Athera cringed internally.

“Such arrogance!” He smiled wolfishly. “And so unearned, as well! You seek to emulate the Elvhen, but you have no idea how far the elves have fallen. I have seen Elvhenan in the Fade. Walked the streets of Arlathan and witnessed the first of our People. They were not mere nomads, moving from place to place, grasping at the crumbling remnants of an empire. They _were_ the empire.”

Athera’s grip on his knee was unyielding, but he ignored her completely.

“They were painters and poets, courtiers and kings. The Dalish speak of homes in the trees and think of wooden houses. Imagine, instead, spires of crystal twining through the branches, palaces floating among the clouds. Imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing. That was what was lost.”

Solas popped a last bite of cheese into his mouth, apparently unconcerned with the cold stares being levelled at him by their hosts.

“To the Elvhen, today’s elves, whether Dalish or city, would be no more than shemlen,” he concluded. “So, if it’s the past you look towards to justify your superiority to the _flat-ears_ , as you call them, then you would do well to humble yourself before it as well. You are no more Elvhen than a qunari.” 

The reaction to his words was immediate. Maren froze, Inar gasped, and Junar was on his feet so quickly that Athera barely had time to register the movement before he was bearing down on them, his face inches from Solas.

“You take that back,” he hissed.

The Dread Wolf looked up at him calmly, his back straight and his blue-grey eyes cold and unmoved.

“I will not.”

Athera watched Junar’s hands clench into fists, saw the decision to punch Solas settle behind his eyes; and then was surprised when the force of her own fury interrupted him.

Before the hunter could draw back his arm, she was on her feet and yanking the wolf up by his shoulders, startling a shocked sound from his lips and knocking Junar backwards.

“While I sympathise with your intention to punch my heart in his obnoxious mouth,” she bit out. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get in line behind me.” 

She grabbed Solas, none-too-gently, by his wrist.

“You. Aravel. With me. _Now._ ”

He opened his mouth as though to argue, but the look on her face stilled him, and she hauled him away from the stunned elves and marched him across the camp as though reprimanding a misbehaving toddler.

When they reached the aravel, she pushed him inside first and followed him in on a tide of her own outrage, before slamming the door behind them and casting a set of silencing wards, all without breaking step. 

“ _What_ in the _void_ was that?” 

To her absolute incandescence, Solas simply clasped his hands behind his back and observed her calmly from across the room.

“A teaching moment.”

Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Blood pounded in her ears, and she couldn’t remember a time when she’d been more furious.

“A teaching moment?” She finally managed to choke out. “ _A teaching moment?_ Was the lesson How to Be an Insufferable Ass to the People Who Showed You Kindness? Or perhaps A Treatise on how the Ancient Elves were Actually Judgemental Pricks and We’re Better Off Without Them?”

He scowled.

“Hardly. It was a much-needed review of Elvhen history, one in which the Dalish are not and have never been the pinnacle of what it means to be an elf,” he replied sharply. “Honestly, their arrogance in regards to the city elves is astounding, as though branding your faces with odes to the false gods and living like wandering hermits is somehow to be applauded.”

He folded his arms in front of himself.

“There was a time when the greatest works of art and architecture in the world were solely the proviso of the elves. When we could spend whole decades weaving magic that would last for millennia. When the very air sang with our connection to the Fade.”

“And whose fault is it that we no longer have that?” She spat back. “You can’t hold us to the standard of some lost empire when _you_ are the reason we don’t have the Fade at our fingertips!”

His face contorted in a potent grimace of anger and grief, and then he squared up to her.

“How dare you,” he hissed. “How _dare_ you. I had no choice! It was the only way to remove the Evanuris and spare the People. If I’d known…”

He trailed off, agitation in every line of his body.

“If I’d known that _this_ is what the People would become. If I could possibly have comprehended a world in which living out of aravels and cooking over fires was the best they could hope for. If I’d known that their immortality would fade until they were no better than the quicklings, and that they’d fear magic just as much as the shemlen…”

He shook his head hopelessly.

“Except, there was no other choice,” he said desperately, as though trying to convince himself. “There _wasn’t_. The world would have burnt. But this world. These elves. They are broken. Sundered. Mere shadows of what they should be. Without the connection to the Fade, it’s like walking through a world of Tranquil. And none of you even understand. You can’t even comprehend what it is you’ve lost!”

She clenched her fists, her whole body shaking with anger.

“Are we even people to you?” She asked softly.

“A pair of pointed ears does not a People make!” He snapped – and so did she. 

She surged forward, her eyes sparking.

“You don’t even hear yourself, do you? I thought you said you _weren’t_ like the other Evanuris?”

He stiffened, his mouth gaping open.

“I’m not-”

“-Aren’t you?” She cried. “Because right now you sound like one. _You_ might have been asleep for 5,000 years, but in case it’s escaped your notice, our history didn’t end with the fall of Elvhenan. We might have lost our magic, and our empire, and our immortality, but we _survived_.”

She scrubbed a hand over her face, trembling.

“Arlathan fell, and immortality left us, and Tevinter enslaved us and we survived. The shemlen warred and we fought back, and we kept on living and we survived. We built our new home, an empire in the Dales, and we became painters and poets and Emerald Knights, and we were our own rulers again.”

She faced the Dread Wolf across the silent aravel, and bared the pain of her people to his face.

“And when it was taken from us, we vowed _never again_. We are the last of the Elvhen, never again will we submit,” she growled. “And that includes to arrogant immortals who would trample over us as though we were nothing but shades. Who would deny our strength because it didn’t look like theirs. You said that you lead a rebellion against slavery, once upon a time. So tell me, Solas, who had the greatest worth? The all-powerful gods who crushed their subjects beneath their heel, or the lowly slaves who rose up and fought for their right to be free, even if they knew it could end in death?”

He watched her in silence, his expression unreadable.

“ _You_ might have slept for millennia, cut off from the reality of the world, but we did not. We are the descendants of those who lived through the fall. _We_ are the ones who fought to survive. We may not be lords with crystal spires and magic at our fingertips, but freedom doesn’t need to be a palace to be worthy. Freedom can be an aravel and an open sky. Freedom can be choosing the path you will walk, even if none of the choices are easy. Even if none of the choices bring glory.”

She drew in a deep breath, feeling somehow adrift from herself as the first flush of anger left her.

“And freedom can also be telling the Dread Wolf that if he’s so much more _real_ than I am, then he can find a way to get his necklace back on his own. Because _this_ shadow of Elvhenan’s former glory has got better things to do with her time than babysit him!”

And with that, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the door, letting it slam shut behind her with a finality she felt in her bones.

The cool spring breeze hit her with the force of a wave, and she blinked back tears and struggled to control her breathing.

How _dare_ he. He talked of freeing the People from slavery, but he would deny them their very personhood, simply because they weren’t the same elves he knew millennia ago. And not only that, but he would deny them their history. The strength and resilience that had kept them alive for all of that time, when all the world was turned against them.

Did they have to be all powerful to be seen as people by the Dread Wolf? Did they need to rule cities and wield impossible magic simply to be thought of as worthy?

She pressed her hands over her eyes, silencing the other, smaller voice that cried out with a far more personal hurt than she was willing to acknowledge.

_After everything she’d done for him, did he not even see her as real? Was she nothing to him at all other than a means to an end?_

She felt betrayed. Humiliated. And she was furious with herself for having been taken in by him.

He was the Dread Wolf. History’s most successful trickster. And she had _trusted_ him. 

She bit back a scream of frustration and stalked across the camp, heading for Ilen’s workshop with the intention of picking up a bow and firing arrows at something she could pretend was Solas’ face. 

But when she got there, she found Junar, Maren, and Variel already dressed for a hunt, their expressions grim.

“What’s happening?” She asked at once.

Junar ignored her, but Maren waved her closer as she hoisted a pack onto her shoulder.

“We sent out a hunting party to the north a few days ago,” she said. “Just a couple of kids really, with our head hunter, Telahn.”

“And they should have been back by now,” she guessed.

Maren nodded.

“They were stalking a great bear we’d seen a few times - thought it might have a den up in the hills by the Nevarran border.”

“So you’re going looking for them.”

She watched as Ilen handed a hunting knife to Junar, and suddenly found that she didn’t want to be here when they left.

“Do you mind if I come?” She asked. “I’m a decent tracker and I’m good with a bow.”

For the first time, Junar looked at her, and whatever he saw in her face softened his expression.

“And you don’t want to deal with your asshole of an esha?” He inferred.

She smiled ruefully.

“If I stay here tonight I think I might put an arrow in him myself,” she admitted, drawing a laugh from the hunter and a wry smile from Maren.

“We could be gone for a few days,” he warned.

“Even better.”

He studied her for a long moment and then nodded.

“Sure, the more the merrier,” he said. “Ilen here can loan you a bow, and Maren’s got an extra pack with the basics all ready.”

“I think my clothes should fit you,” the halla keeper said, considering. “Unless you want to go grab some of your own?”

“Absolutely not,” she said with feeling, and Junar laughed again.

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for them to make ready to leave, and Athera marvelled at the iron bark bow and arrows the craftsman pressed into her hands. If she ever had any money, she’d certainly be coming to him for her own set in the future.

The sun was warm on her back as she slung a pack over her shoulder and retied her braid. She allowed herself a moment of spiteful glee at the image of Solas realising she’d gone, and firmly refused to feel any sympathy for the thought that he might struggle to cope in camp on his own.

In fact, a little bit of her hoped that he’d be gone by the time she returned. There was no reason for her to defend him any longer, if he was going to treat her like a mistake.

Without looking back, Athera strode out of the Dalish camp, and left the Dread Wolf behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I love Solas, but he really can be a prick!


	11. Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athera tracks the missing elves, and they find more than they expected.

The hills at the Nevarran border loomed dark in the twilight, and Athera summoned a magelight as Junar bent over a set of tracks at the treeline. 

“They came this way,” he called back, and she went to stand at his side, studying the marks over his shoulder.

“Less than a day ago,” she confirmed. “And the bear ahead of them. Look.”

He followed her gaze to the larger tracks that lead north-west, and nodded once in understanding.

“We can’t follow them in the dark, and I don’t want to get too close to the hills until the sun’s up again. There’s a service road not too far from here that crests the ridge and crosses the Nevarran/Tevinter border a few miles in.”

Athera knew it well, and for a moment the phantom scent of blood and rot overwhelmed her.

“We can set up the tents here,” Maren agreed. “Give me a hand?”

She shook herself away from the memory and hefted her pack from her shoulder. 

Between the four of them, they got the two tents set up and a campfire going before the last of the light faded from the sky. After a dinner of roast fennec – she was not going to miss that when she finally got back to Starkhaven – and pine nuts, Variel opened a bottle of sweet liquor and passed it around the group. 

The taste tingled pleasantly on her tongue and warmed its way down her throat, and after a few passes Athera found herself relaxed languidly on her elbows, her gaze on the fire. She was pulled from her thoughts by Junar waving the bottle at her head, as he eased himself down nearby.

“So, about your dreamer,” he began, and she winced exaggeratedly, drawing a laugh from the rest of the group. “Is he always so…?”

“Pompous?” She offered. “Arrogant? Infuriating?”

“I was going to go with disrespectful,” Maren offered helpfully.

“Really?” Junar asked mildly. “I was just going to call him a dahn’direlan.”

She choked on her swig from the bottle, and, laughing, passed it to Variel.

“Honestly? Yes,” she said. “I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone who can frustrate me the way he can.”

“But you still love him?” Variel asked.

She sighed, the lie now feeling far heavier than it had a few hours earlier.

“Yes,” she said grudgingly. “I still love him.”

“Why?” Junar asked, and she noticed for the first time that he was leaning very close to her, a faint blush in his cheeks from the drink.

She looked away, fighting her own blush as she caught the intent in his eyes.

“He’s unique,” she said honestly. “He knows things that no-one else does. He can be funny, and kind. And despite his frankly _terrible_ people skills, he needs me. Really, I’ve never met anyone like him.”

She felt an uncomfortable weight settle in her stomach as she realised that everything she’d said was true. For the first time since she’d stormed out of the camp, she wondered if Solas would be alright on his own. 

Would he rile up the hahren somehow? Would he catch another face full of magebane? Would he still have nightmares when she wasn’t there to shake him awake from them?

“I suppose you don’t really choose who you fall in love with,” Maren said sensibly, bringing her focus back to the camp.

“No,” she agreed. “I don’t think you do.”

Junar flopped back onto the grass, his long dark hair fanning out around him and his eyes bright and turned to the sky.

“I guess not,” he agreed. “But I still think he’s an ass.”

Athera smiled wryly.

“So do I.”

When she climbed into the tent she was sharing with Maren a few hours later, her head was light and her muscles pleasantly relaxed from the liquor. But as she drifted into sleep, a sharp knife of worry gnawed at her. 

She was angry at the Dread Wolf. She shouldn’t, under any circumstances, trust the Dread Wolf. But, in the darkness of the tent, she admitted to herself that she didn’t want him to wake screaming and alone in the night, and have no-one there to take care of him.

She was, she realised, an idiot. And so was he.

\--

The next day, they tracked the hunting party as far as the border. Up close, the hills were more accurately small mountains, the dove-grey rock sharp against the horizon and the ascent more treacherous than she remembered. 

“Telahn wouldn’t have lead them this far just for a bear, would he?” Junar asked, digging a waterskin out of his pack and wiping the sweat from his brow.

“I don’t know,” Maren replied. “Ilen needs the bear hide for some armour, and you know the claws are worth a fortune in Starkhaven.”

“Sure, but if it went this far wouldn’t he come back and get me or Junar?” Variel asked. “Athras and Eirlen have only just got their vallaslin.”

Athera scanned the terrain, a kernel of unease coiling in her stomach. 

“The tracks don’t lead up the mountain,” she said. “They follow the border to the west.”

“So he took them into the forest?” Junar suggested.

She shrugged.

“It looks like it.”

“The service road is only a few miles that way.”

“So, they can’t be that far away,” Athera reasoned. “The bear wouldn’t get too close to the carriages.”

Junar sighed and rubbed his face.

“There’s nothing for it but to follow them,” he said at last. “But just for the record, I don’t like this one bit.”

Athera rather thought that she agreed.

\--

Despite their early start, it was late afternoon by the time they came upon the first signs of life beyond vague impressions in the land. The remains of a campfire, long cold, nestled in a depression in the rock, in an area of thick forest and a scrap of parched grass.

While Junar and Maren inspected the abandoned camp, Athera hung back with Variel, her eyes scanning the thick canopy above them and her unease growing. Although the sun was still high in the sky, the trees crowded together in twisting knots above them, blocking out the daylight until it seemed as though evening was already drawing in. But that wasn’t what concerned her.

“There’s no birdsong,” she said into the silence.

Junar and Maren turned to face her, listening, their faces drawn. The only sound was the wind rustling between the leaves. No birds sang; no wildlife moved through the underbrush. It was as though they were the only creatures alive.

“ _Fenedhis_.”

“What do we do?”

While the three of them discussed their options, Athera crept lightly beyond the camp, following a disquieted intuition she’d hoped never to feel again. She had spent enough time in unsafe places to know when something wasn’t right.

She followed the hunter’s footprints deeper into the trees, where they hugged the curve of the mountain and broke away from the tracks the bear had made. Whatever the hunters had found had made them abandon their quarry.

Her companion’s voices became more distant, and she pressed forward, noting the deeper depressions in the earth as the missing elves had started to run. But were they running to something, or away from something?

She suppressed a shudder, at the same moment she rounded an outcrop of the mountain, and swore, loudly enough that the rest of her group ran to catch up.

Ahead of them, the hunter’s tracks disappeared into what looked like a solid rock wall, thick with vines and crawling with ivy. But a gust of heated air told her that the wall wasn’t solid at all.

“Well, shit,” Variel said.

They had found an entrance to the Deep Roads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When did I ever say things would go smoothly?! :D
> 
> Elvhen translation:
> 
> dahn’direlan - Bee puncher. (Literally: an idiot)


	12. Revas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Deep Roads, Athera encounters far more than she expects - including an old friend.

“I don’t like this,” Junar said. “Have I mentioned that I don’t like this?”

Athera squinted at his back and blinked the sweat out of her eyes, the heat clinging to her skin and her footsteps loud on the stone.

“Only about twenty-seven times,” Variel grumbled from behind her.

“Really?” Maren panted. “I made it twenty-nine.”

Athera stifled a snort of laughter and Junar grinned at them over his shoulder. 

The magelight she’d conjured only illuminated the circle a metre or so around them, and their voices echoed off the walls. It made her nervous, to make so much noise in a place that hummed with oppressive stillness, but she knew it comforted them to make jokes, and so for the moment, she kept her thoughts to herself.

The tunnel was only big enough to walk two abreast, but as they moved deeper, it widened until she could stand comfortably and reach out a hand to trail over the wall. They walked for close to an hour, and the rock undulated and changed shape only barely, until all of a sudden, they rounded a corner and walked straight into an impressively large chamber carved out of the stone.

Junar bid them to wait at the entrance, and she drew her bow from her back and sent the magelight to the ceiling a few metres above them. The cavern was vast, with two tunnels branching from it at the opposite end, and stacks of wooden crates arranged around the walls.

But it was the bedrolls that drew her attention: a long line of them that took up most of the floor, arranged around empty waterskins and bundles of food.

“Are people… _Living_ in here?” Maren asked.

Athera stepped forward cautiously, memories of her own flight across the border ringing like a bell in her head.

“This is a rest point,” she said softly.

Junar looked up from where he was kneeling next to an open crate. 

“A rest point to and from what?” He asked.

“From Tevinter to Ferelden,” she replied, her mouth going dry. “I think… I think this is a route on the revas’shiral.” 

Her words drew a blanket of awed silence over them, and she struggled to quell the shaking in her legs. It had been two years since she’d last made the revas’shiral; two years since she’d pulled elven slaves out of captivity and herded them, under cover of night, through fields and forests and safe houses.

But now the memories came back to her with all of the force of a hurricane. Not just her role as amelan, but her own desperate flight from the Imperium. Her body wasted with hunger and pain, the biting air and thick flakes of snow against the dark sky, shouting and torches and hands pulling her forward. A man screaming at the entrance to a cave: _Get up! Josa! Get up or you die!_

And somehow, she had stood. Somehow, she ran. Somehow, she did not die.

She leant against the wall and gripped her bow tightly as she pushed the memories away.

“Where did they go?”

She blinked herself back to the room. Variel had her own bow in her hands, and Athera walked to the opposite tunnels and stared into the darkness. 

“There are scuff marks on the floor,” she said. “Whatever drew them here was further in.”

Junar and Maren swore at the same time, and Athera took a step forward. The bear’s tracks hadn’t lead into the mountain, which meant the hunters had entered for some other reason. If that other reason had been the members of the revas’shiral, then it left her with a burning question: what had happened to draw them further into the Deep Roads, and not out towards the Free Marches?

“I need to keep going,” she said, with more confidence than she felt. “But whatever sent them in there, I doubt it’s good news. I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to turn back.”

The three of them studied her, and comprehension slowly dawned across their faces. 

“You took the revas’shiral,” Junar realised.

She nodded, her lips thinning.

“Years ago,” she confirmed. “But yes. If there’s a chance some of them are here and still alive, I have to find them.”

Maren let out a long breath through her teeth, a look passing between her and her clan members.

“Right,” she said at last. “What are we waiting for?”

\--

It didn’t take long for them to stumble across the first signs of trouble. A sickly sweet smell, like rotten fruit left out in the sun, met her nose, followed by an overwhelming burst of decay. 

“Banal’lan,” Variel hissed. “Darkspawn.”

Athera cast a barrier over the four of them grimly and followed the winding path forward. 

“We may not have to engage them,” she said. “But if we do, remember, don’t let the blood get in your mouth.”

They continued deeper, the smell growing stronger with every passing moment, until up ahead, flamelight danced around a corner and the sound of a battle met their ears. They rushed towards the sound, shadows twisting along the walls and the shrieking of unseen enemies pounding in their ears.

Athera was the first into the cavern, her gaze taking in the mess of bodies struggling to hold back the swarm. Old instincts kicked in at once.

She noted six weakened elves, clearly slaves, pressed against the far wall, defended by three fighters in leather armour who were straining to gain the upper hand, as a clutch of hurlocks and an emissary bore down on them. 

On the other side of the fight, three Dalish elves attacked at their back, two little more than children to her eyes, and the third doing his best to draw the darkspawn’s attention away from his charges.

“Telahn!” 

Junar leapt into the battle at once, his bow singing as he swept into the fray.

“Maren, Variel!” Athera ordered. “Pull the young ones back. I’m going to make a path to the other side.”

Without stopping to see if they were listening, she flanked to the left, widening her shield over the other fighters and sending bolts of lightning into the emissary’s barrier, in an effort to draw it towards her.

It let out a screech and spun to face her, the heat of its magic crackling in the air. She only just had time to dive out of the way of a psychic blast before it was upon her. And then she was simply lost to the rhythm of the fight.

She pirouetted, spinning out of its reach and sending sparks of electricity to distract the swarm, her only thought to keep their attention on her while the fighters attacked from the other side. She could hear the whine of Junar’s arrows, and the clash of metal echoed off the walls until her head rang with it and her blood pounded in her ears.

_Cast. Step. Parry._

_Cast. Spin. Retreat._

_Cast-_

“Come on!”

A strong hand caught at her arm, pulling her back and away, and she realised with a rush of hope that they had turned the tide, and the rest of her group were already running in the direction of the Free Marches.

But behind them, the emissary still fought, and more darkspawn spilled from the tunnels as they fled.

“We can’t let them get to the surface!” A familiar voice shouted from behind a dark cowl.

“Leave it to me.”

She placed herself in the centre of the tunnel, the taste of magic and decay thick in the air and sweat beading on her face. The emissary drifted forward, a swarm of darkspawn at its back, and Athera drew on the last of her mana – and cast.

Flames erupted from her fists and exploded against the rock walls, with enough force that she was knocked backwards and barely managed to stay on her feet. Sheets of dust blew through the air, the stone roared, the ground trembled; and the cavern’s ceiling began to collapse. 

She felt a spark of victory as the darkspawn were buried, someone behind her was calling her name, and then her eyes snapped to a hurlock as it was submerged beneath the rock. But not before it let loose the arrow from its bow.

She observed the scene as if in slow motion. Heard the air sing around the projectile. Felt movement behind her as someone reached for her waist. And then there was a dull pressure in her stomach followed by a bright, searing pain, as the arrow found its mark.

For a long moment, she couldn’t hear over the roaring in her ears, and then her vision began to dim and a wave of shouting rushed in, as she fell backwards against the floor. 

The man with the cowl over his face bent over her, gripping her shoulders and cursing just as creatively as she remembered. It drew a weak smile to her face, even as she felt the warmth of her blood pooling beneath her. 

“Fasta vass! What in the Maker’s name did you think you were doing, girl?” He growled, pulling down the face covering and fixing her with a glare. 

She laughed, and the movement sent a hot knife of pain sliding between her ribs.

“Hello to you too, Fenris,” she replied.

And then the darkness took her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, I DID promise you some early DA cameos, didn't I?! 
> 
> Elvhen translation:
> 
> Revas’shiral - literally, Freedom Journey/The Journey towards Freedom  
> Amelan - protector/guardian  
> Josa - run  
> Banal'lan - darkspawn
> 
> Fasta vass - common Tevene swear word.


	13. Dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's difficult to pay attention when you're bleeding to death.

She came awake again, on her back and in the cold, staring up at a distant night sky as heavy clouds scudded across the moon. The first thing she became aware of was that she was being carried on a groundsheet, strung between two people like a hammock. The second, was the pain.

She choked on a cry, adrenaline flooding her as the wound in her stomach pulsed like the twist of a knife.

Voices clamoured around her; familiar silhouettes drifting around the periphery of her dimming vision, but she could make little sense of what they said.

Her mouth was dry and her head pounded. She tried to ask what was happening, but her throat simply rasped uselessly, and she coughed and then bit back a shout of pain as the movement tore at her muscles.

“Easy, u’venise,” came a voice at her side. “Drink this down.”

A flask was pushed to her lips, and she obediently swallowed a mouthful of sharp-tasting liquid, and immediately regretted it. It was a regeneration potion, and while she had been drifting in semi-consciousness, somewhat removed from reality by distant trauma and loss of blood, now the world came roaring back at her – and _fenedhis_ , it hurt.

“Fen’Harel’s balls, Fenris!” She cried out, too distracted for the moment to question her choice of curse. “Are you a sadist?”

The elven warrior huffed out a short laugh at her side, and she let her head fall back as her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch.

“You’ll thank me when you’re still alive in the morning,” he said. “If you hadn’t woken soon I was going to force it down your throat anyway.”

“You gave us quite a scare, lethallan,” Maren said from her other side.

“She’s _still_ giving us a scare,” Fenris growled. “And she will be until we can get that wound closed properly. Where is this camp of yours, anyway?

Athera tried to think around the spinning in her head. She really didn’t feel well.

“We’re going back to camp?” She asked blearily. “What about the freed ones?”

She tried to sit up, but Fenris placed his hand on her shoulder and firmly guided her back down. It was just as well, because everything had started to spin faster anyway.

“Hawke’s taking them to Kirkwall,” he replied. “They’re fine, thanks to you and that damn fool cave-in you brought down on us.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” She said indignantly. “Or would you rather I let the darkspawn out after us?”

“I’d _rather_ you hadn’t got an arrow in your stomach.”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us,” she slurred, her tongue suddenly feeling too big for her mouth, and her head unusually heavy.

There was another part of that conversation that intrigued her, but her thoughts were slipping away like water through a sieve, and she struggled to latch onto it.

“Hawke?” She asked at last. “Hawke was here?”

“She was,” Fenris grunted. “Would’ve wanted to talk to you too if you hadn’t got yourself shot at.”

Her eyes flickered shut, her energy draining away from her as quickly as it had come. 

“Shit,” she said.

The next thing she knew, Fenris was shaking her awake, his hand firm but gentle around her chin.

“Come on, u’venise,” he growled. “Stay awake for me now.”

She hadn’t even realised she’d fallen asleep. A small part of her mind noted that this was bad; she was sure that falling asleep was bad, for some reason. But the thought was swiftly drowned out by the heaviness in her body, and a dull weight that settled into her limbs and called her back to rest.

“Hold on, lethallan,” a woman’s voice said from somewhere far away. “Not far now. Your dreamer will know what to do.”

That roused a spark of interest from her, along with a dim rush of panic she couldn’t make sense of. Her dreamer. Did she have a dreamer?

She tried to follow the train of thought, but it kept getting derailed by the fog swirling behind her eyes.

“You’ve got to stay awake for him, Athera,” the woman was saying. “You said he needs you, remember?”

_Who needs me?_ She thought groggily.

Her dreamer. 

Yes, she did have a dreamer, she thought distantly. But he wasn’t hers, was he?

“Who is this dreamer?” Fenris asked, and she strained her ears for the answer. “One from your clan?”

“No,” the woman – _Maren_ , she remembered – said. “He’s her love. Solas, the pain in the ass mage.”

_Oh._

That was right. Solas. Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf she’d yelled at two days ago.

She swallowed down a wave of nausea.

They thought he was hers, and of course, that meant he would wait for her.

Except – and the thought crystallised violently – he wasn’t hers, and he probably hadn’t waited for her, which meant that there wouldn’t be a healer at the camp when they got there, and that meant…

_Oh no._

Her last thought as she lost consciousness again, was that she was going to die because she’d called the Dread Wolf an ass. 

\--

The next thing she was aware of was shouting. Lots of shouting. And pain. A lot of that, as well.

She was lying on the ground, and the stars above her were spinning, and there were people standing around her, and they were all shouting.

She closed her eyes, and drifted, only to be woken again by a voice close to her ear. It was familiar, that voice, but it was far, far too loud, and somehow still far away.

“Open your eyes,” It was saying. “Wake up. Open your eyes.”

She was so tired. She wished that whoever they were talking to would open their eyes so that she could get some sleep.

“Come on now, lethallan.”

The voice was louder, and she frowned and twisted away from the noise.

“ _Athera_.”

_Oh_. They were talking to her. 

And she knew that voice. Didn’t she? That was his voice. The dreamer’s voice. Her wolf’s voice.

“Athera. Sathan, _open your eyes_.”

She groaned, her eyelids flickering as strong hands gripped her by the shoulders. She blinked, her pulse pounding in her stomach, and her head, and the tips of her fingers.

With a great force of effort, the room swam into view, and she came face-to-face with the intense gaze of a very agitated Dread Wolf.

“Wha’ssa’matter?” She slurred, because he seemed upset by something. “Di’somethin’appen?”

His shoulders fell and he turned away from her, rummaging in a bag and pulling out various objects she couldn’t see clearly.

“Yes,” he said tightly. “You had an arrow in your stomach.”

Oh, right. _That_.

She let her head fall back again, and realised she was in a bed. She was in Merrill’s aravel. With the Dread Wolf. Again.

“Here,” he said, slipping a hand behind her neck and tilting her head up. “Drink this.”

She let him tip the old healing potion to her lips, grimacing at the taste as she swallowed, and he gently guided her back down.

“Now, hold still. And try not to go back to sleep.”

She thought she grunted in acknowledgement, but couldn’t be sure, her eyelids drooping and her head suddenly feeling twice as heavy as before. Solas ghosted his fingertips across her stomach, and she felt unfamiliar magic move like a wave beneath her skin, tugging and pulling at her as he weaved the wound together with expert precision.

She supposed that healing was something you simply picked up over time, if you were thousands of years old and likely to destroy the world. 

Despite his instructions, he allowed her to doze lightly while he worked, and when he finished some time later and sat back at her side, she roused herself enough to look at him properly. 

He looked healthier than he had the last time she’d seen him, and he’d found a different tunic from somewhere that somehow suited him better, she thought.

She watched him fuss around her with an odd sense of detachment, as he checked her pulse, bound her wound, and eventually slumped back on the stool and met her gaze. There was something strange in his eyes; a powerful emotion she couldn’t place, but which made her clench her hands on the blanket beneath her.

“ _What_ were you thinking?” He whispered at last, more to himself than to her.

_Ah_ , she thought. Anger. He was angry with her.

She thought that was a bit rich, given how they’d met.

“Mostly, _kill the darkspawn_ , actually,” she said, her voice still thick with exhaustion.

She thought he’d argue with her, but he simply shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face, as though he’d expected nothing less.

“You stayed,” she said softly, when it seemed he wouldn’t speak again.

He stared back at her, his expression unreadable in the dark.

“It would appear so.”

She smiled, her eyes already sliding shut again and her thoughts disjointed.

“I’m glad you stayed.”

In the moments before she slipped into the Fade, she could have sworn she heard him reply, almost too quietly to hear:

“As am I.”

\--

The next time she woke, it was to sunshine streaming in through the window and a weight across one of her arms. She stared up at the ceiling, taking stock of her body as she would a broken weapon. Her muscles ached, but flexing her limbs seemed to work.

Her tongue felt like sandpaper, but a tentative clearing of her throat revealed she could still move her face. There was a deep ache in her stomach, and a headache behind her eyes, but given that she suspected she’d come quite close to dying, it didn’t seem as though she’d come out of it too badly.

Wincing, she tried to sit up, turning her head for the first time to look around the aravel; only to fall still when she realised what the weight on her arm was.

Solas had fallen asleep in the stool by her side, his head now resting on her forearm. And, if she wasn’t very much mistaken, his fingers were loosely curled around her own. 

The image of him leaning protectively against her made her stomach flutter strangely, and she immediately put it down to the out-of-date healing potion from the night before. 

Smiling fondly, she shook him awake, her lips curving into a grin as the Dread Wolf blinked up at her, confused, his eyes still clouded with sleep. When he realised the position he was in, he sat up at once, a blush rising to his cheeks as he pulled his hand away as though he’d been burned.

“On dhea,” she greeted him, still smiling.

Despite himself, she thought, an answering smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“On dhea,” he replied. “I am pleased to see you still live.”

She pushed herself into a sitting position with some difficulty and rolled her eyes.

“Is that your way of fishing for a thank you?” 

His smile fell.

“Not at all,” he said seriously. “Although I would like to know how it is that you came to be carried back into camp on the cusp of death, with an entourage of strange and difficult elves.” 

“Ah, so you met Fenris then.”

“If you mean the singularly unpleasant young warrior with the disturbing lyrium vallaslin, then yes. We met.”

She rubbed a hand over her eyes wearily.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” she said. “What did you do?”

Solas’ jaw tightened.

“What did _I_ do? Why do you assume that I was the problem?”

She fixed him with a scathing look.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot that you were being entirely reasonable in your conversations with people the last time we spoke.”

He huffed out a frustrated breath, but didn’t try to correct her.

“ _Fenris_ , as you call him, seemed to think that by bringing you into the aravel rather than trying to stop the bleeding in the middle of the camp, I was attempting to do you some kind of harm. I believe the words he used were _can’t trust a fucking mage alone with u’venise_ , followed by a string of Tevene phrases I was quite glad I couldn’t translate.”

She stifled a snort of laughter, only to be shocked when Solas got to his feet and began to pace in agitation.

“It’s not funny,” he insisted. “There you were, bleeding to death in the dirt, and instead of simply letting me take care of you, he put himself in the way and wasted time I could have spent tending to your wound. By the time I managed to get you in here I-” He swallowed, hard, and drew in a breath. “It was nearly too late for me to do anything. Even with the power from the necklace I barely had enough to stop the bleeding, and for a moment…”

He trailed off, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, and his face was turned away from her.

“For a moment you wouldn’t wake up, and I thought I’d been too late.”

Her gaze softened.

“Ir abelas,” she said quietly.

“Tel’abelas. It was not _your_ fault.” 

Despite the calm of his voice, his back was still rigid and his hands clenched into fists. She reached out tentatively and took hold of his wrist, pulling him gently until he sat next to her on the edge of the bed, his back facing her and his eyes still firmly looking away.

It was almost as if he’d been… _Worried_ about her. 

Uncertainly, she shifted closer to him, until she could rest her head on his shoulder and curl her hand around his arm, and after a few moments, she felt the tension in his muscles start to ease. 

It was strange, to feel so uncertain around him. She had no problem sharing her bed with the wolf, and throwing her arms around his neck. But touching the man was still awkward, and it seemed that he realised it as well.

In the next moment, the familiar form of the charcoal grey wolf replaced the stern elf, and Athera smiled and shifted back so he could lie next to her and rest his head on her chest. She leant back on the pillows and ran her fingers through the thick fur at his ears, drawing a content sigh from him as he inhaled deeply and settled comfortably against her. 

“Foolish wolf.”

He snorted, and she stifled a giggle as his nose snuffled against her jaw in an affectionate gesture she was fast becoming familiar with.

“This time, it was not me who was being foolish,” he grumbled.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she yawned. “I’m sure you did _something_ ridiculous while I was away.”

She scratched absently behind his ears, the weight of the wolf against her altogether too comforting.

“Did you say you’d got the necklace?” She asked at last.

“I did.”

She focused on him with some difficulty, her eyes still trying to slide closed without her permission.

“Should I be worried?”

He huffed.

“I told you, the necklace contained only a small well of power. It hasn’t made me any stronger than the average mage.”

She dug her nails lightly into the thick fur at his neck, drawing an appreciative rumble from low in his throat as he leaned into the touch.

“And I’m glad to hear it,” she replied. “But I meant, did you set anything on fire or make someone want to punch you in the face while you were getting it back?”

He snorted and bumped her with his nose again.

“No-one even realises it’s missing, I assure you.”

Her eyes had closed without her realising it, and she twisted his fur between her fingers and brought her arms around him more fully.

“Hm,” she said, one foot already in the Fade. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

She felt him nestle closer, his breath warm against her neck.

“Ma nuvenin.”

There was something she needed to ask. Something important. But the wolf was warm and solid against her, and she was losing the battle to stay awake. Instead, she pushed her face into his fur and squeezed him gently.

“I’m still mad at you, you know,” she mumbled.

The wolf in her arms sighed.

“I know,” he said softly. And then: “Go to sleep, lethallan. I will watch over you.”

She knew, as the Fade claimed her, that she was safe in the Dread Wolf's gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably too much to hope that the two wolves will get on!
> 
> Elvhen translations:
> 
> u'venise - star fire (from u'ven - star, and ise - fire)  
> Sathan - please  
> On dhea - good morning


	14. U'venise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dread Wolf and Fenris do not get along.

She woke later the same day nestled comfortably in the Dread Wolf’s fur, his even breaths warm against her cheek, and the sunlight streaming through the windows suggesting it was mid-afternoon. In the quiet, with the warmth of the wolf pressed against her, she took a moment to consider just how ridiculous her life had become.

A couple of weeks ago, her biggest concern was making enough money to barter passage back to Kirkwall, and rent a place in the alienage while she re-established her connection to the revas’shiral, and found time to heal. 

Now, those worries seemed futile, for one not-so-simple reason: the fluffiest nightmare wolf of the elvhen pantheon was sleeping with his head on her chest, and she had no idea what to do with him. 

She wasn’t certain they could be called friends – after all, how does one even go about befriending an ancient almost-god? She still wasn’t certain she could trust him, although he had, admittedly, just saved her life. She had no idea what his plans were now he was awake, and truth be told, she wasn’t really sure she wanted to know.

But by peculiar happenstance and chaotic chance, they had been bound together. She could hardly imagine herself simply walking away from him without knowing what came next. She’d spend the rest of her life wondering whether anything terrible or strange that happened was somehow his fault, for starters.

And, besides, there were still too many questions she needed answers to. So many, in fact, that she wasn’t sure a single lifetime would be enough time for her to ask them all in.

She frowned as she considered her second problem, or rather, the second wolf that waited for her in the camp.

She had hoped for more time to brace herself before facing Fenris again. The last she had seen of him, he had kissed her uncomfortably on the cheek and bid her to stay alive and stay free, glancing only once at the round curve of her stomach before she’d turned her back on the revas’shiral, and left. 

Convincing Clan Sabrae that Solas was her lover had been easy. 

But Fenris no doubt already knew it for a lie. 

She sighed and ran her hands over the sleeping Dread Wolf’s neck, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“You have really been much more trouble than you’re worth,” she said softly.

He slept soundly on, and she let her eyes drift and scratched lightly behind his ears and along the thick ruff at his throat, as she listened to the sounds of the camp. After a few minutes of relative peace, a rhythmic thumping sound drew her attention from further down the bed, and she stilled her movements in surprise.

_Thump-thump-thump._

As soon as she stopped moving, so did the sound.

Perturbed, she started up her stroking of the Dread Wolf’s fur again, and the noise began once more. A suspicion growing in her mind and a smile growing on her lips, she slowly lifted up her head, and had to stifle a snort of laughter.

_Thump-thump-thump._

Beside her, Solas began to rise to consciousness, and she kept up her gentle petting and relaxed back against the bed, the thumping sound a soft accompaniment to his snuffling.

“You know,” she said mildly, when it seemed he was somewhat awake. “There is one thing the Dalish got really wrong about you.”

He opened one sleepy eye before closing it again.

“Mm?”

“None of our stories ever said you were so _cuddly._ ”

He yawned and grumbled against her chest, and she dug her nails lightly along his neck.

_Thump-thump-thump._

“I am _not_ cuddly.”

“Oh?” She said, fighting to keep her voice even. “But you like it when I pet you.”

“I tolerate it,” he corrected magnanimously. “It seemed to please you, and I felt I had caused you enough trouble.”

She couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that is so.”

She tangled her fingers in his fur.

_Thump-thump-thump._

“Solas?” She whispered, the smile in her voice nearly giving her away.

“Yes?”

She leant in close to his ear.

“Your tail is wagging.”

He froze, his eyes flying open and his back turning rigid.

“Oh,” he said stiffly. “Oh, _that_ is embarrassing.”

Athera couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard.

__

In fact, she was still fighting a smile when she and Solas – now looking every inch the grumpiest elf in the world – finally left the aravel and stepped into the camp. The cool spring breeze washed over her skin and she breathed in gratefully, ignoring the dull ache in her stomach and the tight press of the bandages around her middle.

Curious eyes followed them as they passed between the tents, although more than a few people stopped to tell her they were glad she was okay, and Athera responded with genuine appreciation to every new well-wisher that passed them by.

Solas, she noticed, remained uncharacteristically close as they walked, but she soon forgot about the Dread Wolf at her side, when they came upon the fire pit and the younger wolf climbed instantly to his feet.

“U’venise.”

In three long strides, he was in front of her, his pale green eyes assessing her carefully, and his shock of white hair brushing distractingly over his cheekbones. She was powerless to stop the sudden rush of emotion that flooded through her chest and made her throat grow tight.

Her incorrigible friend. The man who’d hauled her through snow and ice and dragged her, sobbing, to freedom. Who’d alternately distrusted her magic and then named her for it. Who’d argued with her and fought beside her and fought _for_ her more times than she could count. Her friend, who was even now, she knew, wondering what had happened to the promise she’d held heavy in her womb the last time they’d stood side-by-side.

“Fenris.”

It came out as a whisper, around a lump in her throat she hadn’t prepared for.

His eyes softened, and then she was throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him as though he could undo the last two years, and make her whole again.

He hissed in pain, the lyrium vallaslin no doubt burning in response to her sudden assault, but he didn’t push her away. Instead, his arms locked firmly around her back, holding her to him as tears slid silently down her cheeks and collected in the hollow of his shoulder.

“Easy, u’venise,” he mumbled into her hair. “I’ve got you, girl.”

She drew in a shuddering breath, and then another, furious with herself and more than a little mortified, as she tried to wrestle back some measure of control over her treacherous tears. 

“Ir abelas, falon,” she laughed, pulling away and scrubbing at her cheeks. “It’s been a long few years.”

He grunted, his eyes darting to Solas, who was standing uncomfortably at her back and very pointedly not looking at her yet.

“I figured,” Fenris said. “What with the strange company you’re keeping.”

She felt Solas tense, but before he could start an argument, a surprisingly true peal of laughter fell from her lips, and her smile widened. 

“You’re one to talk, Mr Lyrium and Rage.”

A sharp bark of amusement burst from his throat, and she admired the way it softened the usually-severe lines of his face, and made him look so much younger than his years. Hawke had once said she’d only known two people who were able to tease Fenris without getting a fist through the chest. One of them was her. And the other was Athera.

She supposed that wolf-wrangling was becoming her specialist subject.

“Your point is heard, understood, and ignored,” Fenris said. “Now, come on and sit down before you fall down. I want to hear everything.”

They accepted bowls of stew from Inar and then walked to a grassy knoll on the edges of the camp, shadowed by Solas, Maren, Junar, and Variel. She would have liked to have had this conversation in private, but the Dread Wolf seemed to be uncomfortable leaving her alone with the young wolf, and her new Dalish friends were far too curious about him to have picked up on her subtle attempts to cultivate distance between them.

Their audience was going to make honest conversation impossible, though, and Fenris’ scowl grew by the second.

She sat across from him, cradling the warm bowl in her hands, and was only mildly surprised when Solas sat next to her, his knee close enough to brush against hers. He’d been in an awful sulk since she’d laughed at his tail, but she supposed he understood the importance of keeping up their lie to the camp.

At least, that’s what she hoped he was doing.

“Well then,” Fenris grunted. “First thing’s first.”

He smiled unpleasantly at Solas.

“How did you two meet?”

__

The light was fading from the sky by the time Athera’s patience began to wear thin, and the pain in her stomach started to throb in earnest. She felt like she was conducting three invisible conversations at once; three webs of half-truths that intersected with reality at only certain harsh angles, and then spun away depending on which of the people around her she was maintaining the lie for.

It struck her, suddenly, that she was the only person who knew the whole truth about anything.

Fenris knew she was lying about Solas, but didn’t know why.

The Dalish believed her lie about Solas, but knew more about Fenris than the Dread Wolf did, thanks to Merrill’s association with him.

Solas knew their relationship was a lie, but precious little else about the situation which had ultimately lead her to him.

And she was the spider at the centre of the web, holding desperately onto the threads of conversation, and hoping that someone didn’t pull hard enough for one of them to snap beneath her.

On top of it all, the two wolves had already started to bait each other. Fenris would start telling a tale from their time together in the revas’shiral, and Solas would invent another story about their imaginary courtship.

Solas would lean a little closer to her, and Fenris would vividly describe the time they’d woken up drunk together under a table at the Hanged Man, and had to flee to Varric’s rooms before Corff kicked them onto the street, half-naked. 

He conveniently left out the fact that they’d only been half-naked because Isabela had dunked a cask of ale over them, and neither of them were sober enough to get up the stairs earlier in the night.

Somehow, she got the impression that she was a chew-toy, and Fenris and the Dread Wolf were playing tug of war with her. She didn’t like it one bit.

“Still, it’s good to see you, u’venise,” Fenris said at last, pointedly ignoring the spark of flame Solas prodded their campfire with as it started to burn low.

“Why do you call her that?” The Dread Wolf asked, real curiosity in his voice for the first time.

Despite herself, Athera felt a blush rise to her cheeks as Fenris’ expression softened.

“She didn’t tell you? Strange,” the young wolf said. “What with you being her love and all.”

She sent him a warning look through the flames, but was saved from an argument by Maren, who leant forward eagerly.

“I’ve been wondering that too,” she said.

Athera sighed and shook her head fondly, and nodded for him to continue.

“It was on her first mission to the border,” Fenris began. “See, most of the time, we stay on the Nevarran side, and agents inside the Imperium get the slaves as far as the hills, and we take over from there. But this time, something went wrong. I don’t know what, exactly. Maybe they’d upped the border patrols, but for whatever reason, that night, some of their spellcasters were waiting.”

Athera stared into the flames, remembering.

“There were ten freed slaves and two amelan’s making their way across the plain, this wide open bit of grassland between the city and the hills. It was dark, and too quiet, until all of a sudden, there was light everywhere,” he said. “The spellcasters had followed them until they’d got to the centre of the plains, and the sky fairly lit up with fire when they attacked.”

He took a swig from a bottle that was being passed around, and everyone hung on his next words.

“By rights, we should have abandoned them,” he growled. “Sacrifice a few to save more in the long run.”

“But you didn’t,” Junar realised, and Fenris met Athera’’s eye with a wry smile.

“ _I_ had nothing to do with it,” he said. “Before I knew what was happening, she’d leapt up on top of this rocky outcrop, and started firing like I’d never seen.”

Her stomach pulsed, and she drifted into Solas’ shoulder, stifling her surprise when he moved to rest his arm behind her so that she could sit more comfortably against him.

“It wasn’t just that her arrows were fast, the bow fairly singing with the speed of her shots. It wasn’t even that they hit their marks in the dark almost every time. It was that they _shone_ ,” Fenris said, and no-one could miss the admiration in his voice. “Fire and ice wrapped around them so that they cut through the air like streaks of silver light.”

He sighed, and took another swig.

“We should have turned back. Instead, her arrows came flying through the night, and the slaves knew that someone was fighting for them, and they fought back as well. When they finally made it across, and we got them through the caves, they were all saying the same thing. _U’venise! U’venise! The star fire saved us._ And that’s what she was.”

He fixed her with a tender look.

“Star fire in the dark. And the first decent thing those people had seen in years. The first spark of hope that got them through, made them believe. Made them fight.”

She blushed as they all turned to look at her, and shook her head wryly.

“You give me too much credit,” she mumbled. “What did you call it later? My _magey pageantry?_ ”

He huffed.

“Yeah, well, couldn’t have you thinking I approved too much.”

She laughed, and then hissed as the movement pulled painfully at her stomach. Solas’ arm came out to steady her at once, and she instinctively curled towards him and the stabilising wash of mana he sent through her blood.

“Star fire she may be,” he said. “But I think she still needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” she protested, but the Dread Wolf fixed her with a stern look, and even Fenris was unmoved.

“You are _not_ fine,” Solas said firmly, and she could only comply as he stood and helped her to her feet.

The rest of their group waved her off with instructions to recover quickly, but she was focused on the hand at Fenris’ side, as it ran through a series of subtle movements she would have known anywhere. She met his eye as she left and nodded firmly once, before allowing Solas to wrap his arm around her waist and guide her insistently across the camp.

When they reached the aravel, she feigned exhaustion and slipped under the blankets without undressing, and Solas shifted into a wolf and curled up next to the bed without a word. She thought that he might have wanted to talk more about what he’d learnt, but she was only willing to have one difficult conversation per night, and something told her that speaking to Fenris later was going to hurt in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so you can probably tell that we're going to dig a little bit into Athera's backstory soon! Oh, and the two wolves are ridiculous :D
> 
> Elvhen translations
> 
> Revas'shiral - freedom journey/Journey to freedom  
> U'venise - star fire  
> Ir abelas, falon - I'm sorry, my friend  
> Amelan - guardian/protector


	15. Peaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW/TRIGGER WARNING for discussion of child loss/child death. If this is a difficult topic for you PLEASE proceed carefully!!!
> 
> Fenris and Athera discuss the previous years.

She waited until the noise of the camp fell to silence outside the window, and Solas’ even breaths were the only sounds inside. Fenris had signalled a rendezvous at a clearing half a league north of the camp, but she knew he would wait for her all night if she needed.

Hardly daring to breathe, she slipped from her bed and padded on quiet feet to the door, wincing as she slid the handle down and eased it softly open. There was no change in the Dread Wolf’s breaths, and she whispered her thanks to the universe and left him to his sleep.

Despite the warm day, there was a distinct chill in the night air as she made her way into the forest, her bow slung across her back and her steps light against the ground. The moon was full, and she had no need of a magelight as she weaved confidently through the trees. Forests were her natural home, and she had never needed to fear becoming lost in one.

But even so, her heart beat heavily against her ribs, her mind worrying at her memories as her tongue might worry at a loose tooth. She had hoped for more time ready herself for this moment; for the painful dredging of still-fresh wounds, and the pitiful look she knew Fenris wouldn’t be able to prevent. 

She had been on her own for so long, she’d become used to grieving alone. She wasn’t sure she remembered how to grieve with a friend.

But she went to him anyway, smiling an uncertain smile as she stepped into the clearing, and found him sitting by a small campfire, his posture relaxed and a bottle of sweet wine in his hand.

Neither of them spoke as she sat next to him, and he wordlessly passed her the bottle. She took a deep swallow and then passed it back, the taste reminding her of nights in the Hanged Man, Halin laughing with his hand on her knee, and Fenris sitting quietly at Hawke’s side.

The first crack in the stone around her heart shuddered at the memory, Halin’s infectious smile and blue eyes flashing through her mind. It hadn’t been love, of course. It had been friendship, and a desperate need to cling onto each other during the year in Tevinter, and the uncertain months afterwards.

She hadn’t meant to carry his child. Hadn’t intended a family. But still, she’d wept for him. She would weep again tonight, she thought, before the sun rose again. 

Fenris shifted at her side, and she drew in a steadying breath.

“What happened?” He asked gently.

And she remembered.

__

He was heavy. So heavy in her arms. His blonde hair was matted to his head and the blood – so much blood – dripped from the stab wound in his chest and streaked across the floor. His breaths were harsh, choking in his throat, but she couldn’t leave him. _Wouldn’t_ leave him. She hooked her hands beneath his shoulders and pulled, over rock and dirt and spring blossom, until they reached the safe house.

“What happened?” 

Fenris was the first one there, puling Halin from her arms and running with him inside.

“Bandits,” she bit out, breathing heavily as she followed him. The wound in her leg burned. “Ten of them”

“Fasta vass.”

He hauled Halin onto the table, bellowing at Hawke to find a healing potion from somewhere, but Athera had seen the moment he was laid out that the fight was over. There was too much blood. His breaths were slowing. His face was grey.

A moment later, Fenris saw it too, and Hawke clattered to a stop in the doorway, her expression falling in defeat.

“U’venise,” Halin smiled. His voice was pained, but he seemed peaceful. She wanted him to fight.

He reached for her, and she went to him and took his hand in hers. Pressed her forehead to his.

“Ir abelas, ma lath,” she whispered. “Don’t go.”

There were tears on her cheeks, and a gnawing ache in her chest. Theirs was not the kind of love the bards sang of, it was true, but he had been her truest friend. His laugh lit up a room and his eyes, always so gentle, saw her for who she was. She didn’t want him to leave.

“Don’t go.”

“Ir abelas,” he whispered. “Be free.”

She had screamed when he died. Bent her head over his and howled out her grief; not just for him, but for the secret she had carried for only a week inside her. It was the first thing she’d said when Fenris lifted her away, looking up into his pale green eyes and sobbing.

“I’m pregnant.”

__

By the campfire, tears pricked at her eyes. She realised she hadn’t answered him.

“U’venise,” he tried again. “What happened?”

She drew a deep breath. She could do this. She would tell him.

__

There was no question of her staying in the revas’shiral once her condition started to show, but it wasn’t as though she had anywhere else to go, either. That was, until Hawke and Fenris had come to her one day, and told her there was a place in the Free Marches they used sometimes when they wanted to get away. 

At the top of a grassy knoll, surrounded by a thick copse of trees, there was a home; little more than a wood cabin, really. But it was hers, if she wanted it. And she did.

She went there alone, despite their protests. She wondered, later, whether that had made a difference.

But this new life, this impossible gift she’d been given, was hers and hers alone. She imagined there would be a time when she would return to the city. When she would make friends in the alienage and let Varric tell her child stories. When Fenris would pretend to be unmoved by his niece or nephew, but dote on them all the same.

But she wanted their first year to be in peace, far away from the crowded tenements and prejudices of the shems. She wanted them to breathe in the trees as she had, and while she could no longer give them a clan, she could give them this.

And so, with only a couple of months to go, she moved into the little house on the hill, and made it ready for winter, and new life. She hunted, salting the meat and storing it with the grains. She kept the cheese she’d bartered for and dug out an ice store for the halla milk, and the two animals she’d brought with her settled into their new grazing lands.

She fixed a leak in the roof, and knitted a swaddling cloth. She cleaned out the fireplace and painted the walls. By the time she was heavy enough to burst, the cabin was a secluded place of safety and warmth. At night, the windows would steam up with the heat from the fire, and herbs drying on the hearth would perfume the air.

The snow falling outside made everything quiet, but it was still only autumn, and she wasn’t worried about being snowed in. She thought of Halin, and of how much he would have loved to have met his son or daughter. She pictured him teaching them to hunt, and of his laugh filling the room when they reached out to him.

She wrote down her memories of him in a notebook, so that she would have something to give to them when they were old enough to appreciate it. 

She wasn’t worried. She had grown up Dalish. She knew how to deliver a baby. She knew how to take care of one. They had everything here they would need. She wasn’t worried. 

She should have been. 

__

By the campfire, she drew in another breath and took the bottle of wine from Fenris. She drank deeply, the cracks around her heart splitting. She knew she couldn’t delay any longer.

“It started in the middle of the night…” She began.  
__

At first, she thought it was the wind that had woken her from sleep. The snow was falling thickly, and hail buffeted the roof. She was warm and cosy in her bed, and she scrunched up her eyes and tried to recapture her dreams. But then the first wave of pain started low in her back, and she blinked away her drowsiness and sat up with a start.

Awareness came to her slowly, and then she smiled. It was a warm smile; soft with anticipation and hope, as she cupped the swell of her stomach. 

“Are you ready, da’len?” She cooed. “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

She wasn’t afraid. Not even when the sunlight began to stream through the windows and the contractions bent her double, her teeth gritted against the pain. She paced, and stretched, and breathed deeply, as she’d seen so many others do before her. And she whispered to her son or daughter, promising them it wouldn’t be long now. Promising them they would be happy.

By the time night fell again, the first shards of fear were warring with her persistent exhaustion. She had started to push, to hold herself in strange positions and bear down, sweat pouring from her face as she boiled water and tore fabric into strips. The contractions were coming thick and fast, but she had never heard of a labour lasting this long.

She whispered, and sang, and paced and prayed, and by the time the sky began to lighten again, she held her daughter in her arms.

She had cried, too, when the tiny chest had expanded, her small, perfect mouth opening in a wail that was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard. She was tiny, and pink, with a dusting of blonde hair like Halin’s and thick eyelashes that brushed against her cheeks.

Her daughter.

She named her Isera: her fiery dream, and she loved her with a fierceness that took her breath away.

For the first week, everything had seemed fine. She was small, it was true; arriving a little earlier than perhaps even Athera had realised. But she was strong, and after a few false starts, she began to feed well, suckling with a force that surprised her, even as it made her heart swell.

But then something had changed. Her feeding slowed, then stopped. Her chest began to rattle, and her breathing laboured, and within a few short days, a fever set in. 

Athera stayed calm. She had seen it before. It happened sometimes, with early babies. She would be fine.

She boiled elfroot and made poultices to take the heat away. She kept her close to her chest, held against her heart, and rocked her by the fire. Isera smelt of peaches, and woodsmoke, and milk, and she was the most precious thing in the whole of the world. There was no question in Athera’s mind that she would live.

And she did. For another month. Until, cut off by the snowstorms, the fever suddenly got worse. Snowdrifts rose around the house and fluid rose in her lungs.

She cried, and Athera held her, and fed her, and prayed. 

She cried. Athera prayed. 

She boiled the herbs and stared out at the snow, and knew that they were on their own. 

Isera cried. Until she didn’t.

Until she lay, warm and still and silent in her arms. With her perfect lips and her perfect nose, and her perfect fingers curled around the blanket. With her dusting of blonde hair like Halin’s and her smell of peaches and woodmsoke and milk. 

Outside, the snow fell, and inside, Athera’s star fire turned to ice, and she screamed. And she begged. And she rocked her against her heart.

“Sathan, da’vhenan. Sathan.”

Again and again.

_Please, not my child._

_Please, not my little heart._

_Please. Please. Please._

She buried her by the little home on top of the little hill, with a peach sapling over her grave, and she stayed there for a year alone, to make sure it didn’t die.

__

The stone around her heart shattered, and in the darkness by the campfire, her grief finally broke.

“If I had listened,” she sobbed. “If I’d let you and Hawke come with me, maybe-”

“ _No._ ”

Fenris pulled her sideways, wrapping her in his arms until she was cradled on his lap, her head resting on his knee.

“No, u’venise,” he growled. “You did everything you could have done. Cradle fever isn’t something you can predict. It can happen to anyone. No-one could have done anything more.”

“But-”

“ _No_.”

Her shoulders shook and her breath burned in her throat, and she twisted to clutch at him desperately.

“But I was her mamae,” she finally managed to choke out. “And _I couldn’t save her_.”

A sound of pure grief tore from her throat, and Fenris lifted her up so she could bury her face in his shoulder, and held her tightly against him. Safe in the protective cradle of his arms, Athera finally let herself fly apart, in a way she had never been able to during the hollow year she’d spent alone.

It took her a long time to come back to herself; a long time until her grief was spent. But when her tears had ended, and she found herself still safe and alive inside her own body, a little piece of the gaping wound that had been present in her chest since the day Isera stopped screaming, finally seemed to heal.

It would take longer, she knew, far longer, for it to scab over completely, and there would always be a scar. But for the first time in a long time, she thought that one day, she might be able to breathe properly again.

“Ir abelas, falon,” she sniffed. 

“Tel’abelas, you foolish girl,” he growled, and she laughed against him weakly.

He eased her off his lap, wincing at the burning of his vallaslin, and she wiped the tears from her cheeks and accepted another swig from the bottle.

“U’venise…” He shook his head, staring hard into the fire. “I am truly sorry. But you ought to know, it wasn’t your fault. You need to believe that. _I_ believe that.”

He met her gaze fiercely.

“No-one could have loved her better. Not a single person. Do you understand?”

Her eyes burned and she closed them, nodding once and swallowing the lump in her throat. 

“And whatever you need – _whatever_ you need – you only have to ask. If it’s time and space, then I’ll give it to you. But if it’s people, and life, then you should know that we miss you. Your friends in Kirkwall miss you. You always have a place with us. You know that, don’t you?”

She smiled through her tears and nodded.

“I know, Fenris,” she said. “I don’t know why I stayed away so long. I was… Ashamed, I suppose. And I didn’t know how to tell you. Any of you. We were all so excited.”

She broke off, shaking her head, and he touched her hand briefly and then withdrew.

“You didn’t need to be ashamed,” he insisted. “You did nothing wrong. And as for telling us, well, you’ve told me now. I can tell the others, if you want.”

She nodded.

“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a while, passing the bottle between themselves, and Athera felt the perpetual weight that had settled in her chest start to ease. It would always hurt. But maybe it didn’t have to feel like it was killing her. One day, maybe she would remember Isera without feeling as though she couldn’t breathe.

One day.

“So,” Fenris said at last. “What now?”

She took a thoughtful sip from the bottle and shook her head.

“Honestly, I have no idea. Are you going back to Kirkwall?”

He nodded.

“Just as soon as I’ve made sure you’re alright.”

She smiled.

“I’m alright, Fenris. Really.”

“Oh yeah? And what about that mysterious ‘love’ of yours? Is he _alright_?”

She choked back a laugh.

“No, he’s a pain in the ass,” she said. “But I’m safe with him. I promise.”

Fenris studied her for a long moment, and then grunted.

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

He hesitated.

“You could always come back with me, you know. To Kirkwall. You know that Varric would find you rooms.”

She smiled wistfully.

“I was trying to make enough coin to come back when I ran into Solas,” she admitted. “But now…”

She sighed.

“I suppose I need to see what his plans are first. But I would like to.”

“Fuck him,” Fenris growled. “If you want to come back to Kirkwall you come back to Kirkwall. You need your friends around you, u’venise. It’ll do you good.”

She smiled, her eyes bright with wine.

“We’ll see. Give me a couple of days?’

His expression softened and he nodded.

“Always.”

They sat together in the dark until the bottle was empty and the fire had burnt down to embers, remembering the people they loved, and the ones they had lost.

And somewhere, in the treeline, a charcoal grey wolf turned around, and crept silently back to camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a really sad chapter I'm sorry! I hope it didn't upset anyone too much. Remember to talk to someone if you're struggling with anything similar please <3
> 
> Elvhen/Tevene translations:
> 
> Fasta vass - common Tevene swear word  
> U'venise - star fire  
> Ir abelas, ma lath - I'm sorry, my love  
> Revas'shiral - freedom journey/journey to freedom  
> Sathan, da'vhenan - please, little heart  
> falon - friend  
> Tel'abelas - don't be sorry


	16. Falon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athera learns of Solas' plans for the Veil, and tries to convince him to wait.

She had seen the wolf tracks on her way back to the aravel, and a part of her knew she should be angry. But the sky was beginning to lighten, and her stomach throbbed, and her head felt heavy from all the tears she’d shed, and her heart was tender and bruised. It wasn’t as though Isera was a secret – she was the deepest and most painful love of her life, but she could never be a secret. 

And so, as Athera opened the door and stepped inside, a small part of her that she wouldn’t admit to, simply hoped the Dread Wolf would curl up on her bed and let her rest her head in his fur, and forget. 

He was lying on the floor in the same position she’d left him in, but he didn’t pretend at sleep when she closed the door behind her.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” she told him, as she stripped down to her shift and climbed into bed, but her words lacked any real bite, and they both knew it.

He was silent while she slipped beneath the blanket, and then the mattress dipped as the wolf leapt in alongside her and settled himself against her back, nuzzling her with his nose until she shifted to let him rest his head protectively in the valley above her hips. 

She couldn’t help her small smile as she draped her arm around his neck and tangled her fingers in his fur.

“We need to talk tomorrow,” she told him softly.

He nestled more securely over her and sighed.

“I know.”

She smoothed her hand across the silky fur on his head and he bumped her lightly in response. There was so much they needed to say, she knew. So many questions that needed answers, and an uncertain future stretching ahead of her that somehow now seemed to be dependent upon him.

But she couldn’t think of that now. She was drained, and fragile, and the wolf was reassuringly warm. It probably said something terrible about her, she thought, that she found the Dread Wolf comforting.

“Sleep,” he said quietly. “I will watch over your dreams.”

She let her eyes slide closed, exhaustion overtaking her quickly. He was the Dread Wolf, and she shouldn’t trust him. But she knew, now, that she did. 

__

She didn’t see him in the Fade, but when she woke some hours later, it was with the memory of laughter nestled in her chest, and she thought that he probably had something to do with it. For once, he was already awake, still stretched out at her side with his head heavy against her.

“On dhea,” she greeted him sleepily.

“On dhea’him,” he corrected, the trace of a smile in his voice.

She rolled to face him, and he shifted backwards so he could meet her gaze.

“Really? Already? You should have woken me.”

“You needed the rest,” he argued mildly. “Or have you forgotten that I had to remove an arrow from your stomach only two days ago?”

She grumbled, but didn’t protest, instead smoothing her fingers along the soft down of his nose and gazing up at him sadly.

“We still need to talk, don’t we?” 

He tensed slightly, but inclined his head.

“That would probably be beneficial.”

But neither of them made any attempt to move. She felt as though they were at a crossroads, and she wasn’t sure which way they would turn. 

Since she’d found him, dying by the stream, there had been no question of whether or not she would stay with him. At first, she’d needed to stay simply to keep him alive. Then, she’d followed him to the camp because she couldn’t justify letting the Dread Wolf roam around unsupervised. 

It was easy, while they were in the camp and he was still weak, for her to rationalise remaining with him. But at some point, their relationship had changed. She didn’t feel as though she was the accidentally unlucky elf who’d been cursed to take care of the ancient wolf god anymore. 

Instead, she felt as though she were, if not an equal or a friend, then at least someone he valued in some way - for companionship, if nothing else. Her own feelings, she suspected, were a little more complicated. 

On the one hand, he was the Dread Wolf. An ancient member of the Elvhen, who had seen the rise, and caused the fall of Arlathan; who had been worshipped as a god by the ancients and cursed as a trickster by her own people; and who had once possessed enough power and knowledge to create the Veil – a phenomenon that the shems firmly believed to be the divine work of the Maker. To think about him in those terms left her both awestruck and fearful, in equal measure.

On the other, he was simply a man named Solas, and Solas was surprisingly funny, frequently kind, and often entirely useless at keeping himself alive. He was the man who clung to her when he had nightmares, who scrawled notes in books no-one was ever going to read, and who’d saved her life only days ago when he could simply have left her to die. 

And, he was the charcoal grey wolf who seemed to prefer sleeping next to her, who nuzzled at her neck because it made her laugh, and who wagged his tail when she scratched behind his ears.

Trying to keep the three facets of the Dread Wolf, of Solas, and of the sleeping companion she was reluctantly beginning to think of as _her_ wolf, together as one single entity in her head, was becoming difficult. 

She felt no awe with her wolf; only a tender protectiveness. She felt no fear of Solas; although he could drive her to fury and bewilderment in a heartbeat. But even if she didn’t fear the man, or her wolf, she knew she should be wary of the Dread Wolf. There were too many unknowns where he was concerned.

She had seen a shade of him, she thought, on the day Solas had argued with Junar. It was Fen’Harel who’d sneered at her people, who’d dismissed them as shadows, unworthy of his time or consideration. What she didn’t know, was whether Solas felt the same. 

She was also struggling with one question that dominated all others, and which left her with a vague feeling of nausea: now that the Dread Wolf was awake and in the world again, what was he going to do? He’d already said he had agents who worked for him, but what, exactly, were they working towards?

She sighed, running her fingers through the wolf’s fur and wondering if this was the last morning she’d wake up with him beside her. The thought made her strangely sad, and judging by the way he pressed his nose to her neck and nuzzled her gently, she thought he might feel the same way.

“I guess we can’t delay any longer,” she said quietly. “This will be easier if you’re Solas again.”

He snorted.

“I am _always_ Solas.”

She shoved him away gently and sat up with a smile.

“You know what I mean.”

He stayed on the bed while she dressed and rebraided her hair, and when she finally turned to look at him again, he was watching her as though trying to fix the sight in his memory. It did nothing to make her feel better.

She folded her arms and pushed away any affectionate feelings she had for him. For this conversation, she couldn’t be his friend.

“Solas.”

Another sigh, and then in a ripple of the Veil and a rush of shadows, her wolf became the man once again, sitting on the side of her bed with his hands folded in front of him.

“Ir abelas,” he said softly, and she fought back the smile that threatened to break across her face.

“What are you apologising for this time?”

One side of his lips quirked up, but his eyes were still impossibly sad.

“My manners,” he said at last. “I should not have fought with Junar.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“And I should not have dismissed the Dalish the way I did.”

“Agreed.”

“And…” He paused, dipping his head as though ashamed. “And I should not have followed you last night.”

She sighed, folding her arms in front of herself and casting her eyes towards the window.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she said softly. “But luckily for you, she isn’t a secret.”

His head snapped up and he met her gaze.

“And nor should she be,” he said fiercely. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her eyes burnt and she looked away.

“Truly,” he insisted. “There was nothing you could have done. In this, at least, Fenris was right.”

“Start the parade,” she said wryly. “The wolves agree on something.”

He huffed, even as his eyes flashed with amusement.

“I mean it,” he said quietly. 

She nodded.

“I know.”

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, and she felt Solas watching her out of the corner of her eye.

“Do you accept my apology?” He asked, and she knew she hadn’t imagined the hesitation in his voice.

“For Isera, I do,” she replied. “For everything else…”

She rubbed a hand across her face and squared her shoulders.

“Do you really believe what you said?” She asked. “That we’re nothing more than broken shadows? Tranquil? No more elven than a qunari?” 

He looked away.

“ _Are_ we people to you?”

They both heard what she was really asking. Am _I_ a person to you?

His shoulders slumped and his brow furrowed, as though he were in pain, and she saw the conflict in his face.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

She swallowed.

“I see.”

A strange sort of calm descended over her as he turned his face to the ground and refused to meet her eyes. She thought, perhaps, that she had passed the point of fury. That the hurt she felt had gone so deep that it had emerged at a kind of numbness. She had saved him, again and again, and still, he didn’t accord her the status of person. 

She should hit him, really. She should throw him out of the aravel and scream that the Dread Wolf was among them, and have the Dalish do with him whatever they would. Would he recognise them as people in the moment they killed him? Or would he consider them no better than locusts, swarming a stronger foe?

She should leave. She should walk outside and take Fenris and go back to Kirkwall and never see the wolf again.

And yet, when he looked up at her, there was such torment in his eyes that it made her ache for them both.

“Please,” he whispered. “ _I don’t know_.”

And now she wondered if there was something more he expected her to understand by his words, given that he was watching her with something akin to desperation. Like everything else with Solas, she suspected, there was more to this than she knew.

Feeling as though she was underwater, she crossed the room and sank down next to him on the bed.

“Explain.”

He clenched his hands together so tightly in his lap that his knuckles turned white, and the breath he drew in shuddered when he exhaled. 

“I don’t know how to explain in a way you would understand,” he began, and at the look of outrage on her face, hurried to clarify. “Not because you lack the intelligence to understand, but because you lack the context.”

She waited patiently while he gathered himself and tried again.

“You know, intellectually, that the elves used to be immortal,” he said. “That I have lived for thousands of years. But you can’t possibly understand what it meant.”

He got up and began to pace, his hands clenched at his sides.

“How can you understand the depth of feeling in a friendship that had already spanned five thousand years, and could conceivably continue on forever? How can you contemplate what love between a couple meant, when they had shared a life for millennia? How can you grasp the level of learning and knowledge that could be attained, when death wasn’t inevitable?”

He turned to face her, his expression stricken.

“The People, as they were, loved, and learnt, and fought, and created on a scale that mortals simply can’t conceive of. Whole decades could be spent on considering a single idea. Banquets could be held for months. Lovers would retire together for the night only to emerge three years later without anyone batting an eye. And with the Fade…”

He trailed off, his gaze turning wistful and distant. 

“With the Fade everywhere,” he said softly. “Everything felt different. It felt like more. Love was stronger, laughter more potent. People used to say that we were in some ways continuations of the Fade itself, that our magic and our life force was so strong because we lived and breathed from it, creating music and art and cities with little more than a thought. Everything was connected, singing at the same pitch, in an endless symphony with no clear beginning and no end.”

She noticed, for the first time, that his hands were shaking.

“When I woke and discovered what the People had become, what I had done to them… You can’t imagine what that felt like,” he murmured. “I’m still not entirely sure that the grief won’t drive me mad. After all, I am alone. But for a handful of agents who survived the Fall, everyone else still sleeps. How can I wake them, knowing what I’ve wrought? How could I ask them to live in this world, when every waking second twists in my soul like a knife? Can you even comprehend what I’ve taken from you?”

She shook her head slowly.

“I don’t understand-”

“ _Exactly!_ ” He cried, his voice taking on an edge of hysteria that set her teeth on edge. “And you won’t! You can’t! Because I have killed you, just as surely as if I’d run the sword through your heart myself. Your mortality isn’t natural. The decaying of your body over time is an abomination, a perversion of the natural order.” He broke off, tortured. “Oh, Athera, don’t you see?”

His voice cracked, and she only just prevented herself from reaching for him.

“Every single elven death; every life stolen by the passage of time, is _my fault_. Truly, I am the world’s most prolific murderer, and none of you even understand. You think that a death from old age is a natural one, when nothing could be further from the truth. It is a sickness, as surely as any other, and you have me to blame. So, when I say that I don’t know if you’re people, I don’t mean to suggest that you don’t feel, that you don’t think, and live, and love. I…”

To her quiet horror, any strength he’d possessed suddenly seemed to leave him, and he sank to his knees in front of her, his eyes shining. 

“I know these things to be true. I do. But you can’t imagine my torment. You can’t comprehend how far from the Elvhen you appear. You can’t know how sundered you are from what you were meant to be. And you can’t understand how desperately, hopelessly alone I am, in this world that should never have come to pass.”

He looked up at her and shook his head slowly, his face a mask of misery.

“How old are you?” He asked suddenly.

“Twenty-six.”

The bitter laugh that burst from his throat was frightening, and he buried his face in his hands as his shoulders shook. 

“And that would mean that you are potentially a third of the way through your life already?”

She nodded, and watched as a single tear tumbled down his cheek.

“I have slept for five thousand years,” he whispered. “Before that, I was at the head of a war that lasted for two millennia. Before Mythal was murdered, the time of relative peace in Elvhenan lasted over ten thousand years. Quite simply, I don’t know how old I am, but I suspect that it numbers tens of thousands of years by now.”

With his next breath, he choked on a sob, and she disciplined herself to stillness as he wrapped his arms around his waist as though trying to hold himself together.

“How can I bear this world?” He choked. “How can I watch you all wither and die within a mere century, knowing that I am the cause?” 

She had no answers for him, and waited in silence as the sound of his shuddering breaths filled the air. There was still one question he hadn’t answered, and until he did, she couldn’t reach for him.

“If you can’t live in this world,” she said softly. “What are you doing here? What does Fen’Harel need agents for in Thedas?”

He lifted a pale face towards her, his arms still clenched around himself and his shoulders trembling.

“I don’t know anymore,” he confessed. “I wanted… I was trying…”

He swallowed around a lump in his throat, and Athera’s chest ached in sympathy.

“Yes?”

“I was trying to find a way to bring down the Veil.”

There was a ringing in her ears, and she let her breath out in a rush.

“You want to bring down the Veil,” she repeated.

He watched her with an air of silent desperation as she struggled to process this new revelation, and drew a hand over her eyes.

“You keep saying you’re not a god, Solas, but creating the Veil was a fairly godly act,” she said at last. “It changed the world. More than anything else in history, it changed the world. And now you want to tear it down, five thousand years after it was raised? Is that even possible?”

She shook her head as if trying to clear it.

“And if the Veil was brought down, what would happen? Would we all suddenly have our immortality? Would we all be mages? What about demons? Wouldn’t they simply attack? What about the shems? Wouldn’t they retaliate, if a whole host of elves suddenly developed magic en masse and started to fight back? Have you thought any of this through?”

When she looked up again, there was something terrible in his face; some private agony that chilled her blood and made her want to hide. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by the same look of desperation that had been there before.

“Do you think I don’t understand the ramifications of what I did?” He asked hoarsely. “My every second is filled with them. I look at this world and see only the terrible results of my actions. I sleep to escape my guilt but I can find no rest in the Fade.”

He drew in another shaky breath, still trying to hold himself together.

“To answer your questions - at least, the ones that I can - if the Veil didn’t exist then yes, I suspect that the birth right of the elves would be returned to them. Genetically, at least, you are descended from the People of Elvhenan, and with your connection to the Fade restored it is likely, perhaps even probable, that you would cease to be mortal. You would certainly all have your magic restored.”

She sat very still, and breathed in steadily while something that felt a lot like possibility began to burn, hot and uncomfortable in her chest. What he was proposing was insanity. It was an event she would only ever have thought to be the preserve of a god. And yet… And yet. The thought was tantalising. 

Not so much the immortality – because Solas was right in that, at least: she could hardly conceive of a lifespan of that size, let alone contemplate living through it. But the idea that all of the elves could attain their magic. Of being able to cast without the barrier of the Veil. Of a revolution that would end their slavery and see them restored to their own nation. These things, after all, were the secret hopes of all those who took the revas’shiral.

“And the demons?” She asked distantly. “What will happen to them?”

“They would cease to be demons,” he said confidently. “A demon is a spirit’s wish gone wrong. Many are driven mad when they try to enter this world, but only because the Veil acts as a barrier. I told you before that spirits once lived alongside us, and so they would again. It is as unnatural for spirits to be separate from us as it is for the elves to age.”

Her mind reeled. This morning, the world was simply the way it was; the Veil an immutable state like the sun and the wind. And now she was seriously considering the idea that the very laws of nature were changeable. 

It was entirely possible she’d gone mad.

“But if you did this,” she said slowly. “If you brought down the Veil, there would be consequences.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“This world. The people here. What would happen to them? To us?”

He looked away, and she felt a rush of fear ripple down her spine.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “To tear it down completely, the results would be catastrophic.”

Another wave of calm, more potent than the last, descended over her as her anger boiled over into numbness.

“I see,” she said distantly. “And you think you have the right to make that decision?”

He looked up at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“If not me, then who?”

Her veneer of calm began to crack, and a disbelieving laugh burst from her throat before she could contain it.

“ _Exactly_ ,” she hissed dangerously. “You say you’re not a god, Solas, but you are speaking as one. No-one other than a god should have that power. No-one has the right to make decisions that affect the world so greatly.”

He looked down, his throat working convulsively and his grip around his own waist tightening still further.

“But I did this,” he whispered. “Every time one of the People is sold into slavery, every life that’s lost to disease or old age. It’s my fault. I need to… I _have_ to fix it. You understand that, don’t you?”

He met her gaze beseechingly, and for a second she caught a glimpse of the madness he feared swirling behind his eyes. It was terror, and grief, and loneliness so potent that it stilled her breath in her lungs. She ached for him; and she couldn’t allow him to convince her. Not until she knew it could be done safely.

She understood, for the first time, something with perfect clarity. The Dread Wolf was grieving, and decisions made by a god in grief weren’t decisions that the world could live with. But although he once possessed the power of a god, he was still just a man. Just a man with an impossible burden, alone in a world he didn’t understand. She realised, in that moment, that she had one single chance to stay him.

Steadying herself, she reached out, and with aching tenderness, cupped his face between her palms. In response, a violent tremor ran through him and his eyes fluttered closed, and she knew that she had guessed right. 

For five thousand years he’d been alone. For two millennia before that he’d lead a war against the Evanuris. How long had it been since anyone had shown him gentleness? Violence, she was certain he understood. Reshaping the world was an inherently violent act, after all, no matter the reasons behind it. 

It was easy to meet anger with cruelty. It was far more difficult to turn away from kindness, when it had been denied to you for so long.

She brushed her thumbs across the sharp planes of his cheekbones, her touch as featherlight as she could make it, and felt something sharp pierce her heart as the Dread Wolf leant into her as though he would die if she pulled away.

“I understand,” she said softly, her voice pitched to carry no further than his ears. “No-one should ever have had to make the decisions you were faced with.”

He shivered, his eyes screwed tightly shut and his jaw rigid. 

“You’ve been alone for too long, ma fen,” she continued gently. “Facing too many terrible choices without anyone there to share them with.”

His eyes snapped open, and he stared at her as though she were the only thing in the world. She forced herself to restraint.

“But no-one can make this choice alone, and you know so little of this world. Five thousand years asleep, and less than two weeks awake?”

She forced a wry smile to her lips, even though she wanted to cry.

“That’s no basis for a reasonable choice, and if it can’t be done safely, then it’s not a burden you should have to bear.”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and his eyes shone with unshed tears. She drew a deep breath, knowing they were on a knife-edge and that her next words would tip the balance.

“You are an immortal. The only thing you have is time. Time to make better choices than before. Time to learn about this world. Time to find a better way forward. You don’t have to do it all alone anymore. This choice doesn’t have to be made now, and if you don’t want to be alone, you don’t have to be.”

She let her fingers ghost along the side of his jaw, her heart clenching as he blinked silent tears down his cheeks, his eyes never leaving hers.

“So, what is it _you_ want, Solas?” She asked at last. “Right now, what do you think you should do? Not for the world, but for yourself?”

He looked at her as though he’d never been asked a more impossible question, and the next sound out of his mouth was so obviously a sob that she finally relented and drew him towards her. He went willingly, his head tipping forward until his face rested in her lap, and his arms unfurled from around himself to cling at her waist.

He didn’t make a sound, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs as she bent over him and hid him from the world, her hands running soothingly down his back and her heart pounding in her chest.

“I don’t know,” he managed to reply at last, his voice muffled and thick with tears. 

He drew in a shuddering breath and sat back to look at her again.

“I only know that…” He swallowed hard. “I only know that I do still need to see more of this world, and that for now…”

He turned his face to the floor, and she reached out and tilted his jaw back up to face her, wiping his tears away with a gentle touch that seemed almost to break him.

“For now?” She prompted.

“For now, I would not be parted from you,” he said, his cheeks flushing endearingly. “You are the only person – the only _mortal_ – who knows the truth of me. And despite that, you have surprised me, again and again. You are not what I expected.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He laughed lightly, the first real smile she’d seen in days flitting across his face.

“It is not disappointing,” he said quietly. “Far from it. It has been a long time since I have had a friend. Millennia, in fact.”

She reached down and took his hands in hers, and he gripped her tightly in response.

“I would like us to be friends,” he admitted softly. “If you would have me.”

She squeezed his hands and smiled, even as her mind reeled. In the last half an hour she’d learnt of the Dread Wolf’s plans, convinced him to delay them, and suddenly become his only friend. It was far too much to deal with before coffee.

“Foolish wolf,” she replied, noting the way his eyes lit up at the endearment. “I think we’ve been friends for a while now.”

He smiled somewhat shyly.

“I am glad.”

“Just to be clear, if you do decide to bring down the Veil at any point, I want to be consulted,” she said. “And not with a cursory _oh this is what I’m doing, hope that's fine_. I want to see plans and contingencies and a whole damn folder full of pros and cons and ideas for afterwards, and a complete manifesto for saving lives and preserving cities and learning to live with spirits. And anything else I might have forgotten. Or else I’ll have to terminate our friendship and then you’ll be sorry.”

He chuckled, even as a shadow passed behind his eyes and his grip on her hands tightened.

“You have my word,” he said. “Manifestos it will be.”

She smiled and let out a long breath, tugging him until he climbed off the floor and sat next to her on the bed. Pretending to herself that he was her wolf, and not the man, she slipped an arm around his waist, and was gratified when he returned the gesture and pulled her close to him, his chin resting on top of her head.

“For the record, I’m sorry you’ve been alone for so long,” she said quietly. “No-one deserves that.”

He was silent for a long moment, and then he reached out with his free hand to twine his fingers with hers, and held her just a little more firmly against him.

“Ma serannas,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “For the record, I am glad it was you who found me.”

She grinned into his chest.

“You say that now,” she replied. “But we’ve still got to tell Fenris you’re coming with us to Kirkwall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this update has been a long time coming, so thank you for your patience everyone! I work as a freelance writer so sometimes big projects come in that I have to give my attention to, which means my personal writing projects have to take a back-seat :( 
> 
> Hope the long chapter makes up for it! There will be more coming when I get a free moment to breathe :D
> 
> Elven translations:
> 
> On dhea - Good morning  
> On dhea'him - Good afternoon  
> Ma fen - my wolf  
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry  
> Ma serannas - thank you


	17. Fasta Vass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athera, Solas, and Fenris try to get to Starkhaven without killing each other

“Fasta vass.”

Athera rolled her eyes as Fenris stalked away from her, his pack slung over his shoulder and a scowl darkening his face. Beside her, she could feel Solas waiting uneasily for her reaction, and she supressed the warm wave of laughter that threatened to bubble up her throat. 

Between the chronically angry young wolf and the chronically angsty ancient wolf, she felt like the world’s most ill-equipped counter-weight, treading a rope between the two of them and hoping that she would be enough to steady them into something approaching emotional stability. So far, she couldn’t quite tell whether or not she’d been successful. 

She sighed and shook her head at the two of them, a traitorous smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“You’re smiling,” Solas observed, his storm-blue eyes flicking nervously between her face and Fenris’ retreating silhouette.

“That went rather well.”

The Dread Wolf fell into step at her side, his brow furrowed.

“He called me an insufferable bald bastard.”

“He did.”

“And you a soft-hearted moron.”

“True.”

“And he implied he’d rather crawl up a magister’s backside in search of buried treasure than have us accompany him to Kirkwall.”

“Yep.”

She handed Solas the pack Maren had dug out for him, and slung the one she’d retrieved from beneath the bed over her shoulder. 

“And you’re happy about this?”

She turned to look at him, a wider smile breaking over her face as she caught sight of Fenris prowling back into the camp, the unmistakeable shape of her abandoned canvas of weapons held in his hand.

“See for yourself,” she said.

Solas turned to follow her gaze, his expression still guarded as Fenris thrust the bag into her arms with a grunt.

“You’ll be needing these.”

“Ma serannas, lethallin,” she smiled, and planted a swift kiss on his cheek that made him growl and push her away.

“U’venise,” he said in warning.

She smiled sweetly over her shoulder at him, hardly managing to restrain another laugh as both wolves followed her towards the camp boundaries obediently, still pointedly ignoring each other.

“Yes, Fenris?”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“That-” He gestured with his arm. “ _Thing_.”

“You mean I’m being friendly?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Stop it.”

She did laugh then, earning another scowl from her friend and a perplexed eyebrow raise from Solas. She turned away from them both, half-aware that her undercurrent of giggling was more nerves than humour, and privately wondering whether or not she could keep it up for the six days of travel to Kirkwall. 

“Something funny?”

Junar sauntered to her side at the entrance, his blue eyes twinkling in an overly familiar way that made her blush, and Fenris’ scowl deepen. 

“I’m just trying to get some laughs in before my two grumpy companions start tearing chunks off each other.”

“You know what I think about that,” Junar said, in a softer voice than she’d expected.

She thinned her lips, ignoring the glower from Fenris and the Dread Wolf’s curious attention.

“And you know what _I_ think about that,” she said gently. “You’re needed here, and I promise you I’m not as interesting as my sparkling personality and mysterious companions make me seem.”

She flicked her braid in a pantomime of coquettishness and twirled towards the gates. Junar laughed, and even Fenris and Solas managed a small smile; the latter quickly averting his eyes as though any admittance of good-humour on his part was a personal failing.

“Got everything you need?” Maren asked, eyeing the exchange knowingly.

“I think so,” she replied. “If not, we’ll be stopping the night in Starkhaven before travelling the roads, so we can pick up anything we’ve forgotten there.”

“You’ve stayed in Starkhaven before?”

She caught the concern in Maren’s eyes, and squeezed her arm in reassurance.

“I was there for a while. I know a place we can stay.”

Before too long, Inar, Variel, and Telahn had joined them at the boundary, and she exchanged quiet goodbyes with the two women while the old hunter shook her firmly by the hand.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get more of a chance to know each other while you were here,” he told her sincerely. “Me and my hunters owe you our lives for what you did in the cave. If ever we cross paths again, know that you can count on our friendship.”

She smiled warmly, even as Junar snorted.

“Except Paivel, of course. He’s still convinced your dreamer is some kind of demon in disguise.”

“Funnily enough, I accused him of the same the first time we met.”

The young hunter looked at her strangely, and she smiled as Solas huffed a long-suffering sigh through his nose. 

“Athera.”

“Solas.”

“Must you always court trouble?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, yes, because trouble doesn’t follow you around like a halla calf after its mamae?”

Fenris looked between them with a frown.

“Do I have this to look forward to all trip?”

“Yes,” Athera replied, at the same time that Solas said “No,” and the warrior turned away in disgust. 

“Fasta vass.”

***

Between Junar’s cajoling, Inar’s worrying, and Maren’s insistence on plying them with extra supplies, it was already mid-morning by the time they managed to leave. Despite the two wolves at her back, Athera felt herself growing lighter as she stepped softly between the trees, the blue sky clear above them, and a soft spring breeze in the air. 

It had been nice, in some ways, to be part of a clan again - and Maren’s whispered request to tell Merrill that she’d missed her if Athera ever saw her again, confirmed what she’d always known. Once part of a clan, you were never truly forgotten, even if you couldn’t return there again. 

But she had lived a different way for too long now to be wholly comfortable with a nomadic life. Even without the Dread Wolf to worry about, the constant chatter between the aravels, the clanging of the craftsman’s work, and the squeals of the children, rang in her head like a bell. Although she’d never admit it to him, Solas was right about the Dalish in one way. They only lived to survive.

Moving from place to place, never settling, never growing. Creating only what they needed to make it through one season and the next. It was hard work, and frenetic, but also, somehow, dissatisfying. At least in the revas’shiral, she felt as though she was making a difference to someone. Maybe the Dread Wolf would think more kindly about those of them struggling to free the slaves, than he did of those of them still struggling to survive.

Maybe.

“It’s half a day’s walk to Starkhaven,” she called over her shoulder. “And there’s an inn just outside the alienage we can stay at, as long as you don’t cause any trouble.”

Fenris drew level with her, his green eyes light in the sun.

“Are you warning me or him?”

“I’m warning both of you.”

“Hmmph.”

She smiled.

“Very eloquent.”

Fenris scowled and lowered his voice, but not quite enough to prevent Solas from hearing.

“I just don’t see why he has to come with us. Can you really imagine him in the Hanged Man with Varric? He’ll cause an incident the moment we walk in.”

Before she could reply, Solas sidled up to her other side, his expression perfectly calm but his eyes sharp.

“Please, thank your friend for his concern,” he said smoothly. “But I’m certain that any place that accepts _him_ as a regular patron will be far happier to have me there instead.” 

“Solas-”

“U’venise,” Fenris interrupted calmly. “Please inform your apostate that if he thinks he can blend in at any inn in this part of Thedas, his magic must have fried his brains as well as his hair.” 

“Fenris-”

“Athera, do tell your young companion that while I may be an apostate, his lyrium markings more than-”

“ _Mythal enaste!_ ” She exclaimed, shocking them both into a stop. “I am not a raven! If you want to argue with each other then _do that_ , but don’t expect me to play messenger. Got it?” 

Unfortunately, this started a wave of bickering between the two wolves that continued for most of the day. When they finally arrived at the gates of Starkhaven, the afternoon fading into the light glow of evening, Athera was just about ready to clip both of them round the head. Instead, she spun on her heel and held up a hand to both of them, ever mindful of the city guard watching their approach.

“Right, that’s enough.”

To their credit, they both fell silent, watching her with equally wary expressions.

“This is Starkhaven. It is a rich city, filled with rich shems. We are three elves, two of us apostates, and two of us with vallaslin. We’ll draw their attention like wasps to honey.”

“So, what do you suggest?” Solas asked.

“Our best bet for an easy stay is to present a united, calm, and _quiet_ front. So, do you two think you can manage to go twelve hours without sniping at each other? Because if you can’t then tell me now, and we’ll camp in the forest. But personally, I’d like to spend at least one night in a decent bed with a decent meal before we spend five nights on the road only to end up at the Hanged Man.”

“I’ll tell Varric you said that.”

“Varric would be the first to agree with me.”

Fenris huffed out a laugh.

“You’re probably right.”

She folded her arms.

“So?”

Solas linked his hands behind his back and inclined his head regally.

“I can’t speak for my companion, but as long as he remains civil, I can certainly keep my peace.”

“I shall endeavour to exist with less offence,” Fenris growled.

Solas met his gaze. 

“Do that, please.”

“Ok, great,” Athera said, stepping between the two of them before it could dissolve into another fight. “Just remember, if you two get us killed, I’ll kill both of you.”

They remained close to her as they approached the city gates, Fenris on one side, and Solas on the other. She could feel tension radiating from both of them, and worked to relax her expression into something unthreatening for the guards.

Fenris had avoided the city since he’d helped Hawke return the mage’s to Starkhaven’s Circle. His distrust of magic ran deep, but Athera knew he still felt guilty that three of their number had been executed by Meredith without a proper trial. 

Solas’ unease was less easy to define. Despite his journeys in the Fade, it was clear he knew little of the new world he’d helped to create, and she supposed his most recent encounters with the Dalish hadn’t done much to recommend it to him. She only hoped the rest of their journey would pass without any major crises. 

“State your business.”

Two shem guards stepped into their path, and Athera pasted on a smile.

“Just passing through,” she said calmly. “We’re on our way to Kirkwall.”

The largest guard stepped closer, his eyes roving suspiciously over them all, and lingering on Fenris.

“We don’t want any trouble.”

“We aren’t here to cause any.”

Tension stretched like a wire, and then the second guard nodded imperceptibly, and allowed them to pass through. 

“Keep your heads down,” she said under her breath, as they walked into the city’s streets. “By rights we should stay in the alienage, but that would mean surrendering any weapons to the guards.”

“So, what do you propose?” Solas replied, equally softly.

“I know a place.”

He accepted this in silence, and she lead them through the bustling city to a ramshackle building in the shadow of the alienage walls. From the outside, it looked like little more than a simple home; three storeys sandwiched between far grander houses, paint flaking from its stone walls and the windows coated with grime. 

She stepped up to the creaking oak door, and rapped five knocks in quick succession against the wood, followed by the slap of an open palm. They waited in silence for a long minute, and then the door eased open a crack and a pair of milky white eyes looked back at her. 

“Ah, it’s you,” the old woman said. “Wondered when I’d be seeing you again.”

“On dhea’lam, Adahlen.”

“Not going to wreck my hostel again, are you girl?”

She smiled.

“I told you, that was Isabela, and really it was the nobles who caused most of the damage.”

Adahlen laughed, a low, throaty sound filled with warmth, and stepped aside to let them in. Athera ducked her head under the low doorway and waited in the dim entrance hall as Solas and Fenris followed behind her, and the innkeeper closed the door.

“I remember you saying so at the time,” Ahadlen said, her gnarled hands trailing along the wall as she lead them into an empty bar. “But it didn’t really matter who was responsible, only that I was the one who was left with the clean-up.” 

“Ir abelas, hahren,” Athera smiled. 

“You should be. Leaving an old woman with a mess like that. And an old blind woman at that!”

She couldn’t help it; she snorted.

“Please, you’re blind the way a bat is blind,” she grinned. “I don’t know how, but even without your eyes, you see more than I do.”

Adahlen stopped and leant against the bar, a smile of missing teeth pulling at the grooves in her face and her shock of white hair stark against brown skin. 

“I dare say that’s true,” she agreed. “Which is why I’m surprised you’ve brought your companions to see me.”

She turned her blank gaze on Solas and Fenris, and both wolves seemed smaller under her scrutiny.

“So,” she said mildly. “Which one of you’s the betrayer, and which one of you’s the slave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello! I'm back! Thanks so much to everyone who's been waiting for me to update; your messages have given me a kick up the ass to come back to writing! I've still got an unholy amount of work on so updates will probably still be slow, but I hope this little teaser of things to come makes up for the wait in the meantime! Hope all of you are staying safe <3
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Fasta Vass - Tevene swear word  
> Ma seranna, lethallin - Thank you, cousin/kin  
> U'venise - Star fire  
> Mythal enaste - Mythal's favour - quite literally "Mythal help me" (subtext; oh my god!")  
> On dhea'lam - Good evening  
> Ir abelas, hahren - I'm sorry elder


	18. Sight and Sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adahlen discovers the truth of the Dread Wolf, and Athera makes a choice.

The silence felt like a razor. Fenris and Solas looked, first to her, and then to each other, assessing with new eyes the person at their side. There was fury there, in each piercing gaze, and beneath it, fear. It was the fear of being known, and Athera knew it all too well.

“Oh, dear,” Adahlen said. “They’re flighty these two, aren’t they?”

Two heads snapped round to face her, and two mouths still refused to make a sound.

Athera let loose the air from her lungs in a rush.

“You couldn’t have saved the weird shit until after we’d taken rooms?” She asked wryly, and the old woman laughed.

“Now, where would the fun be in that?”

Athera shook her head and took a seat on a moth-eaten armchair that might once have been red, but was now a faded pastel colour that released a cloud of dust when she moved. 

“Don’t look so stricken,” she told the two wolves, waving them over into similar seats on the other side of a sloping coffee table. “Solas already knew you were in the revas’shiral, Fenris, and Fenris already doesn’t trust you, does he?”

“Not at all,” the young wolf confirmed gruffly.

“Well then. No harm done.”

Still, they hesitated, staring at her with matching expressions of concern.

“For Blight’s sake, what are you waiting for, a cuddle?” She pointed at the armchairs. “ _Sit._ ” 

Both blushing, the two wolves sat, and Adahlen laughed again as she bustled behind the bar.

“I’ll say this for you, girl, you’ve got them both trained well at least.”

Athera snorted.

“I wish.”

Both wolves were now frowning at her, and she met their gaze with an indulgent smile, wondering just when she’d acquired such a strange and impossible pack, and how she’d ever be able to keep control of it.

“What we need, is some tea,” Adahlen called. “That alright with everyone?”

“Fine for me. Fenris?”

The warrior stared at her steadily, and then let out his own breath and sank back defeatedly into his chair.

“Sure. Why not? Tea is fine.”

“Solas?”

He hesitated, and then nodded tightly before leaning back, his posture rigid. She frowned.

“What is it?”

“I…” He fidgeted with a stray thread in the upholstery. 

“Yes?”

His shoulders sagged.

“I actually detest tea,” he confessed, too quietly for Adahlen to hear.

The guilty look on his face brought a beaming smile to Athera’s, and she shook her head fondly at him.

“So? Tell her that!” She said in a stage-whisper. “It’s ok to ask for what you want.”

The Dread Wolf looked sheepish.

“I have always considered it to be unforgivably rude to refuse something offered by a host.”

She considered the tension is his jaw, and stored his reaction away for future consideration. Apparently, social conventions in Elvhenan were a little stricter than the ones they practiced today.

“It’s fine,” she reassured him. “Adahlen?”

“Yes da’len?”

“Solas hates tea, do you have anything else?”

“Do I have anything else? I run a hostel, girl! Not a thriving one, I grant you, but we have more than one thing to drink. How about some hot milk and honey?”

Across the table, Solas’ eyes lit up, even as Fenris scoffed.

“That would be great, thanks.”

A few moments later, Adahlen reappeared carrying a tray laden down with an earthenware teapot, four mugs, a selection of shortbreads, and a pot of honey. She set it down on the table, where it slid a few centimetres before settling in place as she took a seat alongside Athera.

“Well?” She enquired brusquely. “I’m not your mamae. You can serve yourselves.”

Athera grinned, passing Solas his softly steaming mug of milk, and watching closely as he ladled a generous amount of sticky honey into it, a look of pure contentment on his face. Fenris, for his part, strained the tea into three mugs, and Athera added a portion of honey to Adahlen’s before passing it to her, and sitting back with her own mug cupped between her hands.

“That’s better,” the old woman said. “Now, why don’t you tell me about yourselves?”

***

Night had fallen by the time Fenris broke first. Their conversation had ranged from tense, to ridiculous, to positively anxiety-inducing and back again, and Adahlen’s latest comment about familial wounds haunting new love’s steps, had proved to be the final test of his straining patience.

“Think I’m going to turn in,” he mumbled, and with a knowing smile, Adahlen had handed him an old iron key and sent him to the second floor, with instructions not to punch a hole in any of her walls. They could hear him cursing all the way up the stairs. 

In the light of a roaring fire, Athera curled up in her armchair and faced her old friend, keeping a bemused Solas in sight out of the corner of her eye.

“Well, now that he’s toddled off to bed, would you both like to tell me what’s going on?”

She sighed, earning her a clicked tongue from their host and a shake of her head.

“We’ll have none of that, now. You, at least, knew what you were getting into when you knocked on my door. How did you end up with this one?”

She nodded her head in Solas’ direction, who looked back at her with equal parts interest and unease.

“One of the ancients, am I right?”

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” Athera swore softly. “Do you know everything?”

Adahlen chuckled.

“No, not everything. This one’s a puzzle, I must admit, and it’s been a long time since I had someone interesting to gauge.”

She leant over until her hands rested, with some difficulty, on the coffee table, her face turned towards the Dread Wolf. Solas remained still, his own hands folded loosely in his lap, looking every inch the picture of relaxation - if you ignored the twitching muscle in his jaw.

“Adahlen is unusual,” Athera explained to him, somewhat helplessly. “She was an elven foundling, raised with the Avvar for a time, and then was taken to Tevinter.”

“That’s where they took my sight,” the old woman continued for her, blank eyes still fixed on Solas. “But they gave me something too, by accident I’d hazard, unlike your lyrium-scarred friend.”

“And what was it they gave you?” Solas asked, voice soft and curious in the dark.

“Sense,” Adahlen smiled. “They took my sight, and they gave me Sense. Sense to see what the spirits see. Sense to see more than most.”

Solas shifted slightly in his chair.

“I was under the impression that few in this world put much stock in the wisdom of spirits.”

“The Avvar are different,” Athera explained. “They worship spirits as gods, and commune with them too.”

A spark of interest flickered in his eyes. 

“I confess, I have heard only little of this practice in the Fade.”

Despite himself, it seemed, he leant forward, closer to Adahlen’s assessing gaze.

“Although I do not feel the spirits communing with you now.”

She chuckled softly.

“I don’t need the spirits for my Sense, any more than you need them for your magic. They come to me, in dreams sometimes, and whisper things I might have missed.”

“Is that so?”

A decision crystallised behind his eyes.

“And what does your Sense tell you of me, I wonder?”

Athera sat up, placing her empty mug on the table.

“Be careful what you ask of her,” she warned him seriously. “I doubt you’ve ever met anyone like Adahlen. Once she starts to look properly, she won’t be able to stop, no matter how far she goes.”

Solas looked back at her, half of his face cast in shadow.

“That is quite alright. I’m sure I can make her stop if I wish.”

“ _Solas_.” 

He flinched slightly at the sharp edge in her voice, and Athera moved closer to Adahlen.

“She’s my friend. If you ask this of her, you have to accept whatever happens. Do you understand?”

He studied her for a long moment, his eyes flicking between them, and then his curiosity finally won out over caution. He inclined his head.

“I understand. You have my word.”

Adahlen’s face broke open into another gap-toothed smile, victorious. Athera hesitated, a kernel of unease growing in her stomach, but anyone could see that there was no stopping either of them now. With another sigh, she manoeuvred herself until she was sitting at the head of the table, and watched in strained silence as they regarded each other across the wood.

For a long moment, nothing happened, and then she felt a ripple in the Veil, and Adahlen’s eyes began to glow gold. 

“I see Time,” the old woman intoned, her voice quivering with an eldritch timbre that seemed to shake the very atoms in the air. “So much Time bound in so small a space, even memory can hardly be trusted.”

Solas didn’t blink, his blue-grey eyes reflecting the gold of his assessor.

“Pride grows fat on an Empire’s victories, called to a body by one that he loves.”

Athera clenched her hands together as the room began to warm.

“So much Pride,” Adahlen continued. “So many victories. Accomplishments and clever games that hide so much more than they reveal.”

Despite the heat in the room, Athera shivered, the hairs standing up on the nape of her neck.

“Identity comes from outside, tied to an Empire’s whims. When the Empire shatters, so does he.”

Solas sits rigidly in the chair, his hands clenched tight on the arms.

“Stripped down to nothing, the wolf howls in the river of blood. Alone. Always, alone.”

Her voice rises, and the tray on the table starts to shake.

“He thought he fought for the Empire, but all along he fought for her. Beauty is ripped away, torn from scalp and skin. The beast that emerges from the pain is something new.”

Adahlen swayed forward, and Athera lurched in her chair, poised to catch her as her nails gouged marks in the wood.

“Blood and fire and darkness, a howling void that screams in the night. Teeth and claws, sword and shield, a mask soldered into the skin.”

Beads of sweat stand out on Solas’ forehead, and his hands are clenched into fists.

“It was an insult he took as a badge of pride, but he got lost inside it anyway. They pay the ultimate price for their sins, and he _burns_.”

The blood has drained from the Dread Wolf’s face. Sweat drips down his temple. The heat in the air is suffocating. 

“Adahlen,” Athera calls desperately. “Adahlen, that’s enough now.”

The old woman’s eyes flash, and a wave of magic pushes her back in her chair.

“So much pain. So much screaming. He screams and screams, but nobody comes. He has killed them and there’s so much pain, burning in blood and sinew and soul. He will die here, alone. A murderer. A monster. The Dread of a fallen Empire. He doesn’t want to be alone.”

“Adahlen, _stop_.”

The old woman doubles over, hands slipping on the table. Magic falls, heavy and thick around them. Solas is frozen in place, eyes wide and vulnerable as his past is ripped open and displayed for her to see.

Suddenly, Adahlen’s body jerks, and she stands as though pulled by an invisible thread. Her eyes drift out of focus, gold light trained on the ceiling.

“They will come soon.”

Her voice has taken on a terrible quality, the sound throbbing in Athera’s bones.

“They are nearly here. Soon, a choice must be made. He was Pride, and Victory, and Hope and Dread. A Saviour and a Murderer, lost in the cries of the dead. Lost. So long lost, floating, dreaming, forgotten. Which is the mask and which is his true face?”

Athera forces herself out of her chair, and reaches for the rigid body of her friend.

“Adahlen, you have to stop!”

The old woman’s eyes clear, and her gaze slips down to Solas, still frozen in his chair.

“You are dangerous,” she whispers. “And you will destroy, _everything_.”

Magic snaps back from the room like a slingshot, and Adahlen collapses. Athera launches herself forward, catching her in the moment before her head hits the floor, panic rising in her throat like a flame. 

“Adahlen,” she shakes her. “Adahlen, wake up.”

Her hands are shaking, and blood pounds in her ears. She has seen her friend gauge people before, but never like this. Whatever power it must have taken to look into the Dread Wolf’s heart, it is too much for a mortal body to stand.

“Adahlen, _please_.”

A beat, and then the woman in her arms draws in a shuddering breath, and her eyes flicker open and stare.

“Athera?” She croaks. “What happened? Did I fall?”

Athera lets out a choked laugh, and helps her to sit up. She sways a little, and reaches out to steady herself on the table.

“You had some trouble reading Solas,” she tells her, her eyes sweeping over the rigid body of the wolf. “What do you remember?"

Adahlen frowns.

"Nothing. Pride. Pride and a terrible grief."

Athera releases a long breath.

"Clearly, the ancients are a bit beyond your reach.”

Adahlen laughs, oblivious to the fraying of Athera's nerves.

“Well, damn,” she says with feeling. “That’ll be a first.”

With Athera’s help, she stands, her eyes scanning sightlessly over Solas in his chair.

“Oh, dear,” she says contemplatively. “I think I’ve scared your ancient.”

Her eyes flicker and she stumbles a little.

“And I believe I’ve over-stretched myself as well,” she laughs. “These old bones aren’t what they were. Bedtime, I think, don’t you?”

Athera nods, still shaken, one eye trained on Solas.

“I think that’s a good idea. Do you need a hand?”

The old woman waves her away.

“I’m old, not an invalid. You stay here and deal with this one. You know where the keys to the rooms are.”

Still a little dazed, Adahlen weaves her way across the room to a doorway behind the bar. Only when it has firmly closed behind her, does Athera dare to look back at Solas again, her heart still pounding in her chest.

The Dread Wolf doesn’t look well. His hands are still clenched on the armchair, and his eyes stare, unseeing, across the room. 

Athera feels adrift. Adahlen’s voice rings in her head. Blood, and murder, and destruction; that is what the Dread Wolf is. She has known it all her life, believed it as she believes in the wind and the sky and the stars. Adahlen is just the final confirmation.

She should run. And yet, she can’t tear her eyes away from his face. Pale skin, damp with sweat in the firelight, and his eyes glazed and terrible with pain. The Dread Wolf, yes, but also the wolf that shared her bed, pulled an arrow from her stomach, and called her his friend.

How can she just leave him?

“Solas?” She asks softly.

He doesn’t move. She isn’t even sure that he’s heard her. On shaky legs, Athera moves to stand in front of him, and then kneels slowly at his side, trying to catch his eye. 

“Solas, are you ok?”

Finally, he shivers, and his eyes meet hers, a hailstorm of hurt swirling in the grey.

“You should not be here with me,” he whispers in a terrible voice. “You heard what she said.”

She swallows, hard. He’s right. It would be madness to reach for him. It must be. But she does it anyway, resting her hand gently over his, and squeezing.

“I’m here,” she confirms quietly. 

Agony pulls at the corners of his mouth, and he stares blankly at her thumb as it trails back and forth over his knuckles.

“You should leave,” he breathes. “You should leave me. It isn’t safe for you to stay.”

She sucks in a breath. The horror in his eyes is hypnotic. She can’t look away. 

“I’m not leaving,” she says firmly. “I’m staying right here.”

He stills, his eyes roving over her face and his composure hanging by a thread. And then an anguished noise tumbles from between his parted lips, and he lurches forward and reaches for her helplessly. She is similarly helpless to refuse him, rising up on her knees to pull him into her arms, and holding him tight.

“You should not have asked her,” she berates him, her throat tight. “You shouldn’t have let her see.”

He shudders and clutches her closer.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I didn’t think… I didn’t _understand_. Ir abelas. Forgive me. Please. Athera. Falon.” He breathes hard against her neck. “Lethallan. Please, forgive me.”

She can hear it in the tortured sound of his voice; feel it in the hot breaths at her neck. He wants forgiveness for so much more than Adahlen, but she can’t be the one to give it. It isn’t her absolution to give. Instead, she holds him just a little tighter, and presses an instinctive kiss to his temple.

It is a chaste thing, tasting of sweat and meant only to comfort, but the impulse sends a shock through her anyway. The shock only grows when he makes a pained noise against her skin, and in one swift motion, pulls her from the floor and into his lap so that he can rest his cheek on top of her head. Caught in the rigid circle of his arms, she can only hold him in return, and wonder at the nature of the emotion that makes him so desperate to be close.

It takes her a long time after that to coax him into movement again. Eventually, she manages to guide him from the room, taking a key to a room on the top floor and leading him up the stairs. He follows her in silence, his head bowed, and his hand brushing against her arm as they walk. 

He stands too close at her back when she puts the key in the lock, and when she looks over her shoulder, his eyes are blank and lost again. When they get inside, he hesitates, gaze sweeping over the one double bed pushed against the far wall in the room, until she takes him by the shoulder and pushes him towards it.

He doesn’t fight, slipping beneath the bedcovers obediently and sliding to the furthest edge, his eyes tracking her movements warily. She doesn’t bother with the pretence anymore. They have spent almost every night of the last few weeks sleeping side-by-side. Granted, he was always her charcoal wolf at the time, but as he’s told her before, he is always Solas. Despite all of her instincts telling her to run, she doesn’t want to leave him alone.

She has certainly, she thinks, gone mad.

She slips into bed beside him, lifting her arm in silence and letting him rest his head on her chest. He exhales shakily when she tucks the blankets around them, and when she snuffs out her magelight and the room is plunged into darkness, she feels his arms wrap possessively around her, and counts the beat of his pounding heart against her ribs.

When his breaths even out, and the clutching of his hands relaxes into sleep, she lies awake for a long time in the dark, and wonders if she’s allowed a monster into her bed. Which is his true face? How could she know?

When she finally sleeps, she dreams that a shadow steals into her heart, and a wolf tears her open with his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I said it was going to be a while for the next update, but it turns out this chapter was apparently sitting ready-made in my head and I just didn't realise it. So, er... Surprise?!


	19. Offerings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for discussion of child loss

She wakes in the morning alone, the side of the bed Solas had slept in already empty and cold. She is grateful, after her nightmares, to find him gone. At least now, she has time to think.

She stretches beneath the blankets, shades of horror clinging to her sleep-fogged thoughts and casting a shadow over the new light of the day. For the first time since she found him, bleeding by the river, she doesn’t know what to do.

Being with Solas is persuasive. His very personality is magnetic. It’s what’s kept her coming back again and again, even when she knew she shouldn’t. She craves knowledge; he is a living library. She dreams of a new nation for her people; Solas destroyed an empire to set them free. She is adrift, a Dalish elf without a clan and a mother without a child; he is terminally alone, and craves to be understood.

When laid out in those terms, it’s no wonder they’ve found themselves clinging to each other.

The problem, is that she can’t think rationally when he’s near. The bigger problem, is that she can’t tell whether that is his intent, or simply a side-effect of being thousands of years old. His charisma is other-worldly, and she is becoming addicted to his approval. There is something compelling, beyond her more selfless instincts, in having him think well of her.

She realises, with a spark of disgust, that it feeds her ego to be thought highly of by someone as long-lived as him. Never mind that he’s a murderer (he is), never mind that he destroyed an empire (he did), he is also, without a doubt, the most remarkable person in Thedas, now that the other false-gods have been locked away. 

It’s only natural that she should swell with pride every time she surprises him, and at the same time, it’s a dangerous and arrogant indulgence. It’s also a lie. Or, at least, it isn’t the whole truth.

When he’s happy, she can’t help but smile. She’s told herself that’s because she wants him to see the good in this world. If he can see it, then he will be more likely to try and preserve it. But the whole truth is that she also wants his respect; craves it in the same way she craved acknowledgement from her Keeper when she did well in her lessons. His good opinion is a prize she covets.

Similarly, when he despairs, she despairs right alongside him. He is wounded and vulnerable, and every instinct she possesses urges her to try and heal him. When he trembles, it seems so natural to draw him close, to give comfort as she would to any man so obviously in pain.

But that isn’t the whole truth, either. He is not just any man who suffers. She isn’t even sure, now that he’s not lying beside her, whether it’s even true suffering that paints that agony through his eyes. Just as his charisma is other-worldly, so, too, are his emotions. 

He gives every indication of trusting her. He reaches for her, in his darker moments, as though he depends on her to be there. He acts as though her anger wounds him and her kindness sustains him. But how much of it can she trust to be real?

He is thousands of years old. She has known him for less than a month. When put like that, it’s pure arrogance to believe that anything he’s told her is true. A month, in the eye of an immortal, is nothing. How can her twenty-six years offer anything to his immense life? How can she ever believe that this man, this wolf, this general and conqueror and ancient god, would ever need _her_?

It is a falsehood. It must be. And what’s worse, she has allowed herself to believe it simply because it _makes her feel good_. 

She shudders, and pulls the blankets more tightly around herself. She casts her mind back, trying to pin-point the moment she fell under his spell, and trembles to realise that it was as she first held the knife to his neck.

_“You are the trickster god, the betrayer. How do I know this isn’t another one of your lies?”_

_“Do you have something I might want, da’len?”_

And she had determined that no, of course she didn’t. How could she? Except, now she sees that she did. She had his life in her hands, and he, naturally, wanted it back. Favour with her was the path to his recovery. Without it, he would have died on the riverbank, or starved to death in the cave.

And she had given him the key to her personality there and then, hadn’t she? She couldn’t bear to harm something so helpless, and so, he has made himself helpless in her eyes. When in danger from the Dalish, he begged for her help. When facing their council, he clung to her like a child. When faced with the prospect of travelling alone through an inhospitable world, he bared his pain for her and persuaded her to let him accompany them to Kirkwall.

And last night, when Adahlen, one of her oldest friends, had ripped the truth of him right out of his soul, baring blood and destruction and a terrible warning, only to collapse at her feet, her worry had not been for her. No. Her only thought had been to get Adahlen out of the room, so that she could comfort the Dread Wolf. 

But he isn’t vulnerable anymore. The realisation crashes over her like a tidal wave. She nursed him, and allowed him the time to retrieve his necklace from clan Sabrae. He has already performed extraordinary magic in her presence; that arrow wound should have been fatal. And he did it all without a staff.

Nausea rises in her throat so quickly that she actually sits up in bed, the better to regain control of her breathing and calm her racing heart. 

_Solas isn’t weak._

Far from it. He might not possess the same power he had in the time of Arlathan, but he has already proved that he is a mage of no small strength. But at every moment when she might have questioned him, he has made himself seem small. Non-threatening. _Helpless_.

And she can’t even tell if it’s an act. How could she? Even his appearance is another mask he wears. The charcoal wolf is the harmless version of the six-eyed nightmare she glimpsed in the Fade. And the humble apostate, with his bald head and quiet manner; what is he the harmless reflection of? She has no way to say.

She shivers. The worst part is, he has told her who he is. He has called himself the world’s most prolific murderer, described being at the head of a war for two thousand years, and warned her of the danger himself. And she has ignored it all, because _he looks sad_. 

It’s pathetic. It’s worse than pathetic - it’s criminally stupid. She has lapped up his compliments like water to a parched mouth, and ignored the simple fact that, far from being clever or exceptional, all this time she’s been behaving like an idiot. 

_Beware the forms of Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf comes in humble guises, a wanderer who knows much of the People and their spirits. He will offer advice that seems fair, but turns slowly to poison._

How often had her Keeper imparted that message? And how little has she heeded it?

She stares blankly at the room. It isn’t the Dread Wolf who’s lost. It’s her. She has allowed herself to care for him, but she has no way of knowing who he is.

_Which is his true face?_

She doesn’t know. But the question is, does he? Is Solas manipulating her on purpose, or is he as conflicted about himself as he seems? Is his charisma meant to charm her for his own ends, or is he simply unaware of it? 

She groans. Her head is too full of conflicting impulses. She wants to be his friend. She can’t trust him. She wants to help him. She has no idea what her help might unleash. She wants him to care for her. The very thought that he might makes her terrified. 

***

When she finally manages to rouse herself enough to make her way downstairs, she has reached no decision about what to do with Solas, beyond that she needs to be on her guard. She has let herself trust him too easily. It is a mistake. 

She must behave the same way she has been, lest he realise her conflict, but at the same time, she must regard him as the ancient trickster he is, and not simply as her friend. She must do this for the sake of all of her friends, who, she now realises, will be brought into the Dread Wolf’s path because of her.

Fenris doesn’t trust him, but Adahlen did, and he hurt her. Not intentionally, she doesn’t think. He was simply too impossible for her Sense to contain. But the simple fact is that Adahlen was hurt, and Athera ignored it. She can’t afford to let that happen with anyone else. Varric is dear to her. Hawke even more so. And Merrill… She has no idea what she’s going to do about Merrill. 

With her heart so torn in endless worries, it’s an effort to smile when Adahlen greets her, and bids her sit down in the same chair from before. She does it anyway.

“How are you?” She asks guiltily, watching as the old woman bustles behind the bar. “Are you feeling ok?”

“Don’t fuss, girl,” she says. “It was nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure, I feel fine.”

The relief that follows her words is immediate and powerful. Athera sinks back into the chair and allows the weight in her chest to release.

“I was more worried about your ancient. Seemed as though he was fit to faint!”

Adahlen chuckles, and Athera feels her stomach drop.

“He was fine,” she lies. At least, she thinks it’s a lie. “Where are they, anyway? Have you seen either of them this morning?”

“The angry one left as soon as he got up, but didn’t bother to say where.”

She hesitates.

“And Solas?”

“He said something about visiting the market for supplies, and slipped out after offering to help me with the chores. He’s polite at least, I’ll give him that.”

 _Yes_ , Athera thinks. _Perhaps too polite_.

Her plan for the day had been to get on the road as soon as possible, but she can hardly do that without the two wolves. The market is an alluring prospect, but seeing Solas is not. She could go in search of Fenris, but knowing him, he won’t take kindly to being followed, especially if he’s still unsettled by Adahlen. She’s at a loss.

“Is there anything I can help with?” She asks.

Adahlen shakes her head.

“Not here, I’m all done. Hardly brimming with guests, am I?”

“It _is_ quieter than usual,” she admits.

“It’s the war,” Adahlen says. “It seems quiet around here now, but the mages and the Templars have everyone nervous. Most elves passing through prefer to take their chances in the alienage rather than risk getting caught out of bounds.” 

“Hmm,” Athera says non-committaly. “I passed some of the fighting a while back. It seems to be only small pockets of them at the moment.”

Adahlen clicks her tongue.

“For now, maybe. But you mark my words, there’ll be a lot more before this is over.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so,” she says confidently. “You can’t treat people like that and have it come to nothing. Those Circles have been a lid on a boiling pot for years. If you ask me, it’s about time the mages fought back.”

Athera frowns. Between Isera and the Dread Wolf, she hasn’t really had time to consider the unrest already unravelling around them.

“I agree that the Circles are barbaric,” she says. “But what’s the alternative? Mages do need training to avoid possession. In the clans we take care of it ourselves, but for the city elves and the shems, the Circles are their only option.”

“Schools,” Adahlen declares. “Schools for magic, where the mages can come and go as they please. It’s the only way. Otherwise, it’s just slavery by another name. But on the other hand, you go too far into mage supremacy, and you end up with Tevinter. Neither the Circles or the Imperium are a good thing.”

Before she can reply, the door to the hostel opens, and Athera looks up to see Fenris stalking back inside.

“When are we leaving?” He asks her, by way of a good morning.

She sighs.

“Whenever Solas gets back from the market.”

“Bald bastard,” he growls, and then stomps back up the stairs.

Athera watches him go with a feeling like dread in the pit of her stomach. How is she going to deal with both Fenris and Solas over the next five days to Kirkwall? She’s barely been able to handle getting them this far.

“Not much of a people person, is he?” Adahlen observes.

“You have no idea.”

The old woman walks over to her and seats herself in the chair opposite.

“No matter. It’s you I wanted to talk to.”

Instantly, Athera stiffens, her mind running through the possibilities. Did Adahlen remember? Does she know who Solas is? Has she heard of Fenris? How is she going to explain? 

She keeps her voice steady.

“Oh?” She asks mildly. “What about?”

“Peaches.”

The effect is instant. Her heart seizes violently in her chest, the phantom scent of her daughter’s skin filling her nose and her lungs until she can’t breathe.

“You came here to ask me something.”

She struggles to draw in air, her mind scrambling. Did she? Is that why she came to Adahlen, rather than spend the night in the alienage? She hadn’t realised. Has she been lying to herself about this as well? 

“Ask it.”

Her friend stares at her, white eyes unseeing and her mouth curved into tenderness. Athera knows, suddenly, what she came here to ask.

“Was it my fault?” She whispers, hardly able to force the sound from between her lips. “Did she die because of me?”

Adahlen smiles approvingly, and then her face relaxes, the lines in her skin smoothing and her shoulders pulling back. A moment later, Athera feels the tell-tale ripple in the Veil, and watches as her eyes glow gold.

“Warmth and growth, like sun to a flower,” she begins. “A bright love that still manages to burn.”

It’s nothing like with Solas. This time, her voice is gentle. The room remains the same temperature as before.

“Fever comes like a poison, peaches, woodsmoke, and flame.”

Athera feels tears well in her eyes.

“A cry to the gods, but they aren’t there to answer. Please, da’vhenan. Don’t go. Stay with me. You are loved. So loved. And the ground is so cold. You don’t belong there, in the ground. In the cold.”

The sob takes her by surprise, and she smothers it with a hand over her mouth. She’s had so many nightmares about her daughter in the ground. She’s often wondered if she would rather have burnt her; scattered her ashes to the wind, and known that she could fly.

“Threads of fate bind us all,” Adahlen continues, soft and distant as the grave. “Sometimes choice brings ruin. Sometimes, it is not our choice to make.”

The old woman draws a shuddering breath, and for a moment, a great pulse of power seems to enter the room.

“It was not your fault. The ruin wrought was not by your hand. Let go of your guilt. It will serve you no longer. There are others who will need you soon.”

The magic fades away slowly, ripples widening until they vanish, and Athera realises she’s crying.

“Ma serannas, lethallan,” she weeps.

The old woman reaches into the pocket of her robes and hands her a peach.

“Eat, da’len. 

“I-”

She takes it from her, and then shakes her head, scrubbing furiously at her face with her other hand as the tears fall down her cheeks.

“Don’t make me argue with you, girl,” Adahlen says sternly. “You can’t go through your whole life sobbing over furry fruit. You’ve got to make your peace. It’ll take a long while to heal, but you can start here. Eat.”

Athera chokes on a laugh, and draws in a shaky breath. The first bite of the peach is sweet and painful. Juice runs down her fingers, and the smell seems to stop the blood in her veins, plunging her back into the cabin with Isera cradled against her chest.

“That’s it. Finish it all.”

She does, picking the soft flesh away until all that’s left is the gnarled stone in the centre. She holds it tightly in her palm as her tears dry. 

It wasn’t her fault. It feels as though a shard of glass has been chiselled out of her heart. She will heal from this. She’s thought it before, but this is the first time she’s believed it. She will be okay. She tucks the stone away in her pocket, and hopes it will stop her from forgetting.

***

It’s nearly lunchtime when Solas finally returns, a new pack strapped to his shoulder and a weather-worn staff in his hand. In her amazement, she forgets to be wary. 

“Where in the void did you find that?”

His mouth turns up at the corners and his eyes sparkle. For a moment, she’s mesmerised by the change in him. Last night, he was vulnerable and lost. Now, he seems buoyant, and more relaxed than she’s ever seen him. Keeping up with the Dread Wolf’s mood swings is starting to give her vertigo.

“The market,” he informs her, eyes glinting with mischief. “It took a little bartering, but eventually, the stallholder agreed it would be better in my hands.”

She feels a shiver ripple down her spine, even as he smiles. She doesn’t think he’d do anything to hurt anyone needlessly, but then, she can’t be sure that he wouldn’t.

“That’s… good?”

He laughs, a rich, warm sound that startles her. 

“It’s better than good, lethallan,” he tells her. “I haven’t felt this much like myself in an age.”

It’s too easy, she thinks, as his face lights up and he inserts himself behind the bar to help Adahlen, to get lost in his joy. Just as she is pulled into his misery, she is similarly influenced by his happiness. 

The more like himself he becomes – whichever _self_ that is – the more magnetic he appears. It makes him that much more alluring. And that much more dangerous. She doesn’t know how to treat him when he’s like this.

As though he’d been listening for Solas’ return, Fenris emerges downstairs, and takes in the Dread Wolf’s new staff with an unhappy tightening of his jaw.

“Great,” he huffs. “More mage shit.”

“It’ll be useful if we run into trouble,” Athera tells him honestly. “Casting’s less effective without one.”

“That’s how I prefer it to be,” Fenris tells her seriously. 

In Solas’ case, she can’t really disagree.

It takes them little time after that to be ready to leave, and Athera feels a surprising sense of loss as she hugs Adahlen goodbye. Between her constant wolf-wrangling and the open wound of Isera’s passing, she hasn’t made much time for her friend. It occurs to her belatedly, that with the elves too scared to stay here and the war still ongoing, she might be in trouble.

But almost as soon as she recognises the problem, Adahlen shakes her head.

“Don’t you worry about me, da’len. I’ve been through worse than this. But you…” She trails off, her gaze distant again. “There’s something coming in your future, and I can’t see what, but it won’t be like anything you’ve experienced before.”

As she often does when fear makes her blood run cold, Athera brushes it off with a smile.

“Oh, good,” she says wryly. “I’ve been worried life was getting a bit boring.”

Adahlen smiles knowingly, just as Solas reappears at her side, and hands her friend a purse heavy with coins.

“For your hospitality,” the Dread Wolf says grandly. “And for the hot milk and honey.”

Athera can only gape as Adahlen blushes under Solas’ charm, uncharacteristically stammering as he presses the bounty into her hands. She’s so stunned, she can barely manage her final goodbyes.

Somehow, she finds herself outside with Solas standing too close, and Fenris stalking ahead, while Adahlen closes the door behind them, still clutching the straining coin purse. She turns her head, to find the Dread Wolf watching her with thinly disguised satisfaction. The pride in his eyes is distracting.

“What was that?” She demands, when she finally finds her voice again.

“There’s an old shrine to Fen’Harel just outside the city,” he informs her simply. “I merely relieved the collection plate of its offerings. You’d be surprised by how many elves still make presents to the Dread Wolf, in the hope I will leave them in peace.”

She stares at him, stunned.

“What?” He looks at her with wide-eyed innocence. “It isn’t stealing if it was meant for me.”

She finds that she doesn’t know how to argue with that after all, and the trickster strolls on ahead of her, whistling a carefree tune. 

She is definitely, she thinks, impossibly out of her depth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so it turns out this weekend was a writing weekend. I have done NONE OF THE WORK I was meant to be doing, so I hope you've all enjoyed the three-chapter flurry :') I should not be trusted.


	20. The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athera, Fenris, and Solas reach Kirkwall

Despite her worst fears, their experience with Adahlen seems to have mellowed the two wolves into something almost manageable. Fenris still snaps. Solas still sulks. The young wolf spends a full day thinking up new ways to call Solas bald (“a head like a shaved ballsack” is his most crude, and “you seem to stand taller than your hair” manages to have Athera almost weeping with laughter, despite the Dread Wolf’s scowl). 

Solas, for his part, remains in a buoyant mood. After so long dealing with an angsty ancient god, the change in him is startling. He trades barbs with Fenris with a glint in his eye. He hums as he collects firewood in the evenings. More than anything, he becomes a hive of information, pointing out which plants he remembers from the days of Elvhenan and asking endless questions about the flora and fauna he doesn’t recognise.

At night, they each lie out on bedrolls around the dwindling fire, and Solas sets his closest to Athera. She wakes up more than once with the Dread Wolf’s hand resting a finger’s breadth away from hers as she sleeps. She doesn’t know if it’s intentional, and Solas is never awake in time to notice.

She takes to holding the peach stone in her hands, running her fingers over the gnarled surface whenever Fenris gets too difficult, and Solas becomes too impossible; which is most of the time. Her feelings are still hopelessly confused, torn between the undeniable attraction of Solas’ happiness, and a deep-seated anxiety that grows new roots the closer they get to her friends.

She still isn’t sure that it’s safe to allow the Dread Wolf near, and yet, she keeps on leading him towards them anyway.

Her nerves only grow on the last night of their journey, when Solas takes advantage of Fenris’ brief absence and sits down by her side.

“May I?”

She looks up, pulled from thoughts of fallen empires and bloodied teeth, only to come face-to-face with warm blue eyes and a disarmingly gentle expression. For a moment, she’s lost to the unexpected tenderness in his gaze, thoughts stuttering and a rush of heat rising to her cheeks.

He’s holding his hand out to her, and she follows the path of his gaze to the stone in her hand.

“You want this?” She finally manages to ask, a sudden protectiveness surging through her at the thought of giving it away.

“Only for a little while,” he reassures her. “You will have it back in a few days, I promise.”

She hesitates. He smiles. The softness of his expression and the curve of his lip is distracting.

“Trust me.”

She hands him the peach stone wordlessly, and hopes it isn’t a metaphor for something.

***

On the dusk of their final day, Kirkwall appears over the horizon like a storm cloud. The streets are heavy with unease, even three years after the Chantry was destroyed. Debris litters the roads, the hum of something unpleasant in Darktown pricks at Athera’s nerves, and the city guards watch them with ill-disguised hostility.

It isn’t, she realises a little too late, an ideal place to bring the Dread Wolf if she’s hoping to convince him this world is worth saving. 

Kirkwall is less of a scar than it is an open wound, weeping misery like an infection into the surrounding air. The citizens are either extremely rich or hopelessly poor. The streets are built along fault lines in the stone and the earth seems to shift with small quakes every day.

The place where the Chantry once stood is now a softly smoking crater. Hawke’s championing of the mages means that many still linger, but they are still spurned by most of the other residents, and small pockets of Templars patrol the streets despite the loss of their leaders.

Even so, Fenris visibly relaxes as they walk through the stagnant roads, and Athera can’t help but appreciate the softening in the lines of his mouth. He isn’t returning to a city drowning in its own misery. He is returning to Hawke.

The stench of the Hanged Man rings sharply in her nose when they enter; sweat and ale and, if she pays too much attention to it, blood. This is no place for an ancient Elvhen wolf-god.

She sneaks a glance at the god in question out of the corner of her eye, relieved to notice that the only evidence of his distaste is a tightening of his jaw, and that perpetual line between his eyebrows that signals some unknown thought she’d rather not know about.

Before she can dwell too much on Solas, a wave of warmth and light washes over her, the raucous conversation and shouting nearly overwhelming her after so many days in the wilds. For a moment, she feels herself to be cast out of time. In the familiar crowd, she is briefly a different person, another Athera from a bygone year, stumbling inside with her pockets filled with trinkets pick-pocketed from some unsuspecting noble shem.

Halin’s arm is around her shoulder, his blue eyes sparkling, and her heart is pounding from running and laughter. Across the bar, Hawke looks up, a smile curving one side of her lips while Fenris stands nearby, pretending he isn’t almost crowing with pride.

In the corner, at his usual table, Varric is playing cards with some unsuspecting traveller, demanding stories as payment for the losses he’s inevitably suffering after one too many ales, while Merrill watches him quietly.

But that was then, when everything seemed possible, and before it all went so wrong. She blinks, and the image fades; although some things still stay the same.

“Starfire?” A familiar voice says. “Is that you?”

A smile breaks across her face before she’s consciously realised it.

“Andraste’s tits! It is! By all the stories in Thedas, I didn’t think we’d see you again so soon.”

“Hello Varric,” she smiles. “Miss me?”

The dwarf grins up at her and folds his arms, his eyes roving over her companions and lingering on Solas.

“Are you kidding? It’s no fun around here without you shooting arrows at everyone. And I see you’ve brought Broody back with you, too.”

Fenris, predictably, broods.

“Hawke around?” He asks, in a low voice.

“My rooms,” Varric tells him, equally quietly. “And don’t cause a scene, ok? She’s only just got back and Templars have been in and out of here all day.”

Fenris grunts in acknowledgement, and then strides across the room without another word, already seeming to have forgotten them. Varric chuckles. 

“The elf’s not changed then.”

“Not at all,” Athera agrees. 

“And I see you’ve found another one.”

His eyes run up and down Solas, shamelessly assessing.

“Let me guess, he’s got a sob story the size of an ocean, and you found him all alone and decided to adopt him as a stray?”

Athera blushes, and Solas’ frown deepens.

“Something like that,” she admits. “He ran into some trouble with a Dalish clan and I was…” She waves her hand dismissively, and then sighs. “In the area.”

Varric barks out a laugh, shaking his head fondly, and holds out his hand to Solas.

“Varric Tethras,” he says. “Rogue, story-teller, and purveyor of terrible ales. What do they call you?”

The Dread Wolf shakes his hand, the line between his eyebrows growing.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

Varric turns to look at her, one eyebrow raised and an impish smile pulling at his lips.

“Not very friendly this one, is he?” He turns back to him, and then nods once decisively. “I’m going to call you Chuckles.”

The look the wolf gives him in return is so plainly horrified, that Athera chokes with the effort of smothering a laugh.

“I would rather you didn’t,” Solas replies stiffly.

“Chuckles it is!”

Athera looks away before she can start grinning in earnest.

“Now, come on, let’s get a drink. The next book’s going badly and I need to hear everything about everything.”

***

Luckily, Varric doesn’t actually insist on hearing everything about everything. Before he can, Fenris ducks out of Hawke’s rooms and pulls him aside to murmur in his ear, and Athera watches as the rogue’s face takes on an achingly sorrowful expression and his eyes flick over to hers.

She swallows around the lump in her throat and looks away, gripping a flagon of terrible ale between her hands and sending silent thanks to the young wolf for keeping his promise. She doesn’t feel as though she can tell Varric about Isera yet. One day, maybe, but not today.

Unfortunately, with her immediate past pulled out of the realms of gossip, and Fenris returning to Hawke just as quickly as he reappeared, Solas is the one to draw the rogue’s full attention.

“So, Chuckles,” he says, seating himself opposite the two of them and taking a swig from his tankard. “What did you do to piss off the Dalish? I thought you elves stuck together for the most part.”

And so began the longest evening of Athera’s life to date. Solas, it seemed, had very little intention of mellowing his manner simply to ingratiate himself to Varric. For every pointed question, he returned an equally sharp answer. The Dalish were _ignorant of their history_ ; Kirkwall was _a miasma of misery_ ; Fenris was _the antithesis of all true elves_ and the mage situation was _a perversion of magic’s inherent beauty_.

By the time the young wolf emerged from Hawke’s rooms again, looking far more relaxed than he had the entire time he’d travelled with them, Athera was seriously considering whether or not she could flick the Dread Wolf on the nose and tell him _no_ without incurring some form of wrath in response.

That was when Merrill arrived.

Rushing in through the doors and calling for Varric, her babbling cut off with a start, and then her face broke wide in a beaming smile and she practically squealed with glee.

“ _Athera!_ ”

Athera smiled weakly as the mage pulled her into a hug, already talking a mile a minute in her ear. Eventually, she pulled back for a breath, and cast her gaze around as though looking for something; or someone.

“Wait a moment,” she said, her face a mask of confusion. “Where’s the baby?”

That familiar sensation of the blood stalling around her heart gripped her chest, and her throat began to ache. Distantly, she saw Varric drop his head into his hands with a mumbled “ _Oh, Daisy_ ”, and heard Fenris swear as he pulled Merrill back from the table and away to a quiet corner.

Everything felt very far away. Varric began talking about his new book to fill the silence, and she felt, rather than saw, Merrill wilt under the force of the young wolf’s furious whispers nearby. 

She breathed in through her nose, one hand holding tight to her tankard as though it could hold her to the ground. Isera’s mere mention hadn’t felt like such a blow since they’d left Adahlen’s, but there was something uniquely distressing about having her absence brought to life here.

It was here she had fled to after Halin’s death. It was Varric who had held her while she wept and made jokes when she was ready to hear them. Merrill who had brewed her teas to take away the morning sickness, and Fenris who had gruffly promised to teach her son or daughter to swing a sword when they were old enough, and then promptly told her to stop grinning before he did something he’d regret.

It wasn’t simply Isera’s death that pricked a thorn into her heart here; it was the alternate future that would now never be. Merrill bouncing her daughter on her knee. Varric subtly presenting her with a handmade toy. Fenris and Hawke’s smiles when they met their niece for the first time.

They would never meet her. The realisation swallowed her like a tide. Isera was gone, and she would never know these people who had loved her even before she was born. 

Athera’s ears rang, and she offered Merrill as shaky smile when the young mage crept back to the table, her head bowed and her eyes shining. Fenris returned with her, a warning look on his face that promised retribution if she brought the subject up again.

The conversation continued around her and she sank back against the bench, adrift and lost, until she felt a strong hand reach for hers under the table, and hold onto it tightly.

Her chest ached, and she twined her fingers with the Dread Wolf’s and pressed her shoulder to his, swallowing back tears as his thumb smoothed across her skin and he turned his chin, ever so slightly, to rest against her hair. The movement wasn’t missed by any of her other companions, and she watched as each of them seemed to reassess the man sitting at her side; Merrill’s eyes warming at once, while Varric raised a considering eyebrow and took another swig of ale.

They stayed that way for the rest of the evening, her sitting quietly against Solas, with his hand warm in hers while he fielded a never-ending barrage of questions from her friends. They didn’t seem to mind her sudden silence, and before long she found her eyes drooping, and her head lilting onto Solas’ shoulder while the bar steadily filled around them.

It was Varric who eventually ushered her up and out of her seat, handing both her and Solas keys to separate rooms and sending them upstairs. The Dread Wolf stayed close until they reached the dingy landing, and they each unlocked their respective doors.

She hesitated on the threshold of her room, before turning to find him watching her, a shadow of concern in his eyes.

“I…” She swallowed. Her voice seemed too loud, even with the sound of laughter and shouting echoing up from the floor below. 

“Will you be alright?” 

She wasn’t sure. She forced a smile to her lips and nodded, and after a moment’s pause he inclined his head in acceptance and turned towards his room.

“Solas?” 

He paused, listening.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Before he could turn back to face her, she slipped into her room and closed the door behind her. And when she climbed into bed, the mattress threadbare and the blankets stained, she refused to think about how strange it felt to lie down alone, without her wolf at her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been meandering a bit with this story trying to develop Athera and Solas' relationship, but now we're in Kirkwall I get to start accelerating the plot, so I hope you're all still with me because things are going to be approaching on the horizon in the next chapters! (Once I get them written, that is...)


	21. Eluvian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill makes amends.

Mornings at the Hanged Man were the polar opposite of the nights. In the years before, they had been her favourite time of day. The bar would be empty save for Corff behind it, and she would sit with him in the quiet and drink tea as the sun crept across the stained floor and the city woke with a hangover. 

Before long, Varric would be up, trundling downstairs for breakfast and seating himself in a corner, surrounded by stacks of parchment.

Often, Hawke and Fenris would slip in next, already plotting for the day, and Merrill would arrive from the alienage soon after and proceed to chatter until the young wolf got up to leave. 

So many years later, it still felt like second nature to wake with the dawn, and Athera slipped into the quiet bar as the sun rose, and was instantly surprised to find Merrill already there. 

“You’re up early,” she said, moving towards the back to fix herself a pot of tea.

The young mage looked back at her, guilt sitting heavy across her forehead.

“I was waiting for you,” she admitted. “I wanted to apologise.”

Athera’s hands shook on the teapot, but she dipped her head in acknowledgement and offered a small smile.

“It’s not your fault. You weren’t to know.”

Merrill frowned unhappily.

“No, but this kind of thing always seems to happen to me. My Keeper would always have to tell me.”

Athera waited for the water to boil, her fingers tapping restlessly against the worktop.

“What would they tell you?”

“Look first before leaping. Think before you speak. Not everything that happens inside your head needs to make its way to someone else’s ears.”

Athera laughed softly at that, and Merrill offered her a weak smile.

“So, before everyone else was up, I wanted to let you know that I’m sorry. For everything. For you and for what you must have been through.”

Athera swallowed, crushing elfroot with the flat of a spoon, her eyes fixed on her work. 

“And I wanted to say that even though I can’t understand, and I always seem to say or do the wrong thing, and Fenris says that everyone would be happier if I just stopped talking a lot of the time,” Merrill paused to draw breath. “That you’re still one of my best friends, and I’ll do whatever you need. If you need me to shut up I will, and if you need me to keep talking nonsense then I can do that _really_ well.”

Athera caught her eye with a smile.

“And if you need to talk to me I can listen, and if you want a distraction,” she drew in another breath. “Then I can definitely find you at least one. And no matter what, I’m really, really glad you came back.”

Athera finished making her tea, and carried the pot and two mugs over to Merrill’s table.

“I missed you,” the mage finished at last. “We all did. It didn’t feel like home without you here.”

Athera’s throat ached when she swallowed. 

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I missed you all too.”

Merrill opened her mouth, and then seemed to think better of it, and instead strained their tea into the cups and folded her hands in front of her. They sat in silence for a long time, listening to the city waking outside the doors, and Athera tried to hold onto the peace of the moment, storing it away for some time in the future when calm would be in short supply.

Eventually, she picked up her mug and blew across the top of it, watching as the steam rose in grey tendrils towards the ceiling and danced with the dust motes in the light.

“I saw Clan Sabrae,” she said at last. “Actually, Solas set their tents on fire.”

Merrill’s eyes widened, and then she laughed a little too loudly, hurt in the corners of her mouth.

“I don’t think I even want to know how that happened.”

“You don’t.”

“Are they…” Her voice sounded thick, and she swallowed to clear it. “Are they ok?”

Athera nodded.

“They’re fine. Well… Not _fine_ , exactly, but they’re all alive, and looking for new areas to travel to.”

“That’s good,” Merrill decided after a long moment’s thought. “I want them to be ok, even if they don’t want me anymore.”

Athera hesitated.

“Maren wanted me to pass on a message,” she said slowly. “She wanted me to tell you that she misses you, and she hopes you’re alright, wherever you are.”

It was Merrill’s turn to look away, her hands tightening on her mug.

“Should I have told you?” Athera asked. “That I’d seen them?”

The mage smiled, and reached out to squeeze her hand.

“Yes, I’m glad you did. It’s good. Well…” She cocked her head, thinking. “ _Good_ might be the wrong word, but I’d always want you to tell me the truth.”

Athera nodded and they lapsed into silence again.

“So,” Merrill said at last. “Solas?”

Athera groaned and shook her head, earning a laugh from the mage and a suggestive quirk of her eyebrow.

“Not today,” she said. “Soon, but not today.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

She chuckled.

“I’m sure you will.”

“What do you want to do today then?”

She sighed, eyes drifting over to the window.

“You mentioned a distraction of some kind?”

Merrill’s eyes sparked with mischief.

“Oh, just you wait and see.”

***

Athera stood in Merrill’s cramped room in the alienage, and struggled to stop her mouth from gaping open. A small bed was pushed up against one wall, and bundles of clothes were hanging from hooks near the door. Most of the space, however, was taken up by an eluvian. A very bright, very large, very _active_ eluvian.

“I don’t believe it,” she breathed. “You actually fixed it!” 

Merrill’s entire body seemed to hum with satisfaction, and then abruptly, her face fell.

“Yes,” she said. “And no.”

Athera stepped forwards, the magic thrumming through the object exerting an undeniable pull, as though urging her to step through. 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s working. I can activate it, and I can almost sense something beyond.”

“But?"

“But it still won’t let me through. Look.”

The mage stepped up to the mirror, the ethereal light glowing blue and refracting in ripples across its surface. She placed her hand on the glass, and Athera felt a shudder in the veil - a wave of magic that tasted like o-zone, and thunder, and home – and then just as quickly as it came, it snapped back again, leaving Merrill rubbing at her skin as though burnt. 

“It’s _infuriating_ ,” she complained. “I’m _so close_ I can practically taste it, but I must still be missing something. I just can’t figure out _what_.”

She threw herself down onto the bed, her forehead drawn into an unhappy frown and a pout growing on her lips. Athera moved closer to the eluvian, and after a moment’s pause, reached out with her arcane sense and felt for the edges of its power.

It washed over her like a breeze. A warm feeling that was almost familiar; like discovering a place you once visited in childhood, and had forgotten until that moment. Merrill was right. There was something beyond, pressing against the mirror as though beckoning her in. She trailed her fingers over the surface, feeling it buzz through her skin like electricity, but when she pushed a little harder, it sparked strongly enough to make her pull back, wincing at the rush of sudden heat through her nerves.

“This is amazing, Merrill,” she said honestly. “To have even got this far…”

She shook her head in disbelief. It _was_ amazing what Merrill had accomplished, but now that she was here, standing at the threshold, she felt an almost desperate compulsion to step through. This was the most significant historical find any Dalish elf had ever made – except, perhaps, for Fen’Harel himself – and they were still stuck lingering outside.

The thought of what might be behind it was tantalising enough to entice her with a feeling that was similar to lust. 

And she knew how they could get in.

“I think…” She hesitated, chewing at her lip. 

She was almost certain that Solas would know how to get through. What she wasn’t certain about was whether it was a good idea to let the Dread Wolf know that they had an eluvian only a stone’s throw away from his bedroom. Whatever was on the other side – _our lost history_ , her thoughts screamed – she still wasn’t certain he should be given it.

She cast her gaze over Merrill, taking in the mage’s down-turned lips and yearning eyes. She had sacrificed so much for this; lost almost everything dear to her in the pursuit of whatever was on the other side. How could she keep the knowledge from her if she had a way to help?

“I think Solas might know a bit about these,” she said nervously, and Merrill’s focus snapped to her at once. “He’s…” _The Dread Wolf._ “…a dreamer. He might have come across them in the Fade.”

Almost before she’d even registered the words, Merrill launched herself from the bed.

“Are you _serious_? Your mage is a dreamer and you’re only just mentioning this _now_? _Mythal enaste_ , but this is perfect! We have to go and get him, and Hawke too. She’s been moping about for weeks and-”

Almost as quickly as the chattering started, Merrill slammed her mouth shut, a guilty smile creeping across her face.

“Oops,” she said self-consciously. “I got carried away again, didn’t I?”

Athera laughed, and wondered if Merrill could ever do anything else. 

***

It was still only mid-morning when they made their way back to the Hanged Man, but as soon as they stepped through the door, a cacophony of voices beat them back again. After a few moments of bewildered staring, Athera gathered from the maelstrom of Varric, Fenris, and Hawke’s shouted words, that they thought she’d somehow been kidnapped, and were just on the verge of sending out a search party.

When she’d calmed them, her eyes immediately sought out Solas, finding him standing by the bar with his hands clasped behind his back and an assessing gaze trained steadily on her. She sent him a smile that he didn’t return, and she wondered what had put him in such a terrible mood already, and whether it would wait until after she’d spoken to Hawke.

Her breath stuttered.

_Hawke._

She dragged herself away from her concerns for the Dread Wolf, and met the considering expression of her friend.

“Despite everything, Starfire,” Hawke began. “You’re looking good. Decent muscle tone, bright cheeks. You look like you can still fire a decent shot or two as well.”

She grinned.

“Are you going to give me a rub down and feed me a sugar cube next?” She joked, and Hawke immediately let loose a laugh that came straight from her chest.

“That’s my girl. Now, come here, before I have to go out again and leave you with this band of misfits.” 

She found herself pulled into Hawke’s chest, held gently but firmly in the warrior’s arms while the older woman murmured in her ear.

“We’re going to talk, you and I. Something’s come up and I’ll be away for a few days, but don’t think that’s going to get you out of it. Understand?”

“Sure thing, mum,” she needled around the lump in her throat.

“And I want to hear all about this apostate of yours,” Hawke added in a whisper, before pulling away and holding her at arm’s length. “Fen, are we good to go?”

“We’ve been good to go all morning,” he growled. 

“Great. Ok then, Varric?”

“Here, boss.”

“Keep an eye on everything while we’re away.”

“Let me guess, you’re still not going to tell us where you’re running off to?”

Hawke shrugged on her pack and strapped a dagger to her waist.

“Can’t. Not yet, anyway. But me and Fen’ll be alright. It’s these lot I’m more concerned about.”

She gave them all a mock glare, lingering a little longer on Solas than was strictly necessary, in Athera’s opinion.

“Oh, don’t worry about us,” Merrill said breezily. “We were fine.”

“That’ll be a first,” Fenris muttered, but held up his hands in placation when Hawke sent him a look.

After a round of goodbyes and a last hug for Athera, the two warriors left, leaving the four of them standing in an awkward silence that was quickly broken by Merrill rushing towards Solas, who took an instinctive step backwards without seeming to realise it. 

“Athera says you’re a dreamer!” 

Solas’ eyes flicked to hers and then back to the mage.

“That is the case, yes.”

“ _Amazing_ ,” Merrill enthused. “So, I have this problem. Well, it’s less of a problem really than it is an experiment, although I suppose all experiments are technically problems when you think about it. Anyway, not important. The point is, Athera said-”

Varric cleared his throat, and Merrill clapped her mouth shut again with an audible click, apparently only just realising that Solas was staring back at her in silence, thoroughly bewildered.

“Oh. I’m doing that thing again, aren’t I?”

“Just a little bit, Daisy,” Varric looked between Athera and Solas. “Why don’t we leave these two alone for a little while? You can come and help me convince Corff to do breakfast.”

Athera sent him a grateful smile as he lead an apologetic Merrill from the room. And then she was alone with the Dread Wolf.

“On dhea,” she greeted him, taking note of the tight line of his jaw and the way he held his shoulders rigid. 

“On dhea,” he returned stiffly.

She took a hesitant step towards him.

“Has something happened? Are you ok?”

He looked down, his brow furrowed.

“I suppose you didn’t think to tell me you were leaving?”

Of all the things he might have said, this one surprised her the most.

“But I didn’t leave,” she said honestly. 

“Were you here?” He snapped back.

“No.”

“Then you left.”

She stared at him, mind struggling to catch up. His eyes were trained away from her, focusing behind the bar while a muscle in his jaw twitched. 

“Did I… Scare you?” She asked at last, still hopelessly confused.

His eyebrows drew together into a frown and he shook his head, then caught himself and looked back at her. She met his gaze as he opened his mouth, closed it again, huffed a breath through his nose, and then folded his arms agitatedly.

“I didn’t know where you were,” he bit out at last. “I didn’t _like_ not knowing where you were.”

He spoke the words as if they pained him, and Athera mentally scribbled another discovery about the Dread Wolf’s personality onto her growing list. If she’d actually kept a list, it would so far look something like:

_Fen’Harel – fluffy?!  
Bad at hunting  
Impossible know-it-all  
Over-sensitive and angsty  
Lonely?  
Cuddly_

And now:

_Fear of abandonment???_

She sighed.

“I only went to the alienage with Merrill.”

“I didn’t know that, did I?” He challenged. “I had no idea what had happened to you! It was barely dawn and your room was empty and the bar was silent, and I-”

He broke off, his mouth twisting around the words.

“And you what?” She prompted gently.

His exhaled heavily and his shoulders slumped.

“I thought you’d left me,” he whispered.

She let the silence that followed his words linger for a long moment, once again thrown by such an obvious display of vulnerability. As before, in his presence, logic slipped away like a tide. It didn’t matter that he was the Dread Wolf. It didn’t matter that he was ancient and unknowable and quite probably dangerous. It only mattered that he was afraid.

Still, she hesitated, assessing the taut line of his shoulders and the shadow in his eyes. Was he truly afraid? Could he really have believed she’d abandon him? More importantly, did it really matter to him whether or not she was here? She had no way of knowing. 

She took a risk.

“Solas?”

“Yes?”

His words were sharp, but she could see the need behind them. She opened her arms.

“You’re an idiot,” she told him. “Come here.”

He hesitated for only a second, and then he stepped into her embrace as though it were home. His hands encircled her waist, and he buried his nose in her hair as the tension melted from his shoulders and he let out a quiet sigh.

“Ir abelas,” he murmured at last. “I have never felt this adrift before, and it seems that you have become my safe harbour. I will try to get better at trusting you to stay.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, and so she said nothing. He held her for a long while, apparently quite content to stand in the sun and let the noise of the city break around them. She would be lying, she knew, if she tried to pretend that she didn’t find the same comfort in him. 

Eventually, the sound of Varric and Merrill pestering Corff in the backroom drew them apart, and Solas’ eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

She shrugged, a blush rising to her cheeks without her consent.

“Foolish wolf.”

He grinned, suddenly boyish, and she firmly ignored the way her heart stuttered at the sight.

“What was so important that the mage whisked you away so early?” He asked.

“Ah,” she said haltingly. “About that."

He looked back at her, his expression open and curious.

"Solas, what do you know about eluvians?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you hear that sound? It's the sound of terrible choices being made!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Mythan enaste - mythal's mercy  
> On dhea -Good morning


	22. Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New developments in Kirkwall test Athera's patience

“This is remarkable,” Solas said. “Truly, I am impressed. I was certain that the knowledge of how to create an eluvian had been lost along with the ancients.”

The three of them were standing in Merrill’s room, and despite the fact there was barely any room left to move in, Solas had completed at least three circuits of the artefact, his gaze sharp with interest.

He came to a stop in front of it again, standing close to Athera, and in the pale blue light she could almost see the ruler he had been. Grey eyes became bright in the glow, and his magic licked out towards the mirror, meeting it like an old friend and leaving a ripple of power in its wake. Even in the tumbledown alienage, Fen’Harel seemed strong and proud when confronted with his glorious past.

“I had some help,” Merrill told him honestly.

“Indeed?” 

He pinned her with his gaze, and Athera could almost see his mind turning the young mage over again, removing from her the title of _thoughtless chatterer_ , and according her the status of _person of interest_. On the one hand, it was a good thing. The more people who pleasantly surprised him, the better.

On the other, the Dread Wolf now had her scent, too.

“And who else in this world has such knowledge?”

Merrill flushed and looked away, and Athera only just stopped the chuckle that rose in her throat. Out of everyone in Thedas, Solas was the least likely person to berate her for accepting help from a demon.

“It was a spirit,”” she answered, when it seemed that Merrill wouldn’t, and if anything, Solas’ interest grew.

“Truly?” He asked her. “And what sort of spirit came to your aid?”

Realising that the strange apostate wasn’t going to denounce her as a maleficar, Merrill visibly brightened, although Athera caught the regret in the lines of her face.

“It called itself Audacity,” she said. 

“But Audacity was not its true nature?” He surmised.

“No, it was a Pride demon, and although it aided me, it took possession of my Keeper.”

The Dread Wolf sighed heavily.

“A shame. Few in this world now think to seek the wisdom of spirits, and there is much from them to be learned. Although one should always proceed with caution.”

“You sound like Hawke,” Merrill smiled. “The caution bit, anyway.”

“Caution is an important lesson to learn,” Solas said seriously. “But I commend you for the work you have undertaken here. Were your clan not pleased, despite their loss?”

Merrill let out a bitter laugh, and met Athera’s gaze.

“You didn’t tell him?”

Solas looked between them.

“It wasn’t my story to tell,” she answered.

“Tell me what?” He frowned, studying her warily.

“Nothing terrible,” she reassured him. “But you met Merrill’s clan. In fact, you set their tents on fire.”

His eyes widened in understanding.

“Ah,” he said, and paused thoughtfully. “That actually explains a great deal.”

“They gave him magebane,” she explained to Merrill. “A lot of magebane.”

“Oh. Ir abelas. That was probably my fault.”

“Tel’abelas,” he said sincerely. “Their fear may be of your doing, but their ignorance is not.”

The young mage smiled, and Athera was surprised to see an answering smile from the Dread Wolf flicker across his face. Clearly, Merrill’s particular brand of inquisitiveness was much more to his liking than she’d realised. 

“So,” she said. “Do you know how to get through?”

Solas hummed contemplatively, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Perhaps,” he said at length. “What knowledge I have suggests that it is functional, although I could certainly seek more aid in the Fade.”

He hesitated, and then seemed to come to a decision.

“I suspect that the thing you are missing, is a password,” he said.

“You are _kidding_?” Merrill exclaimed, torn between disbelief and annoyance.

Solas smiled.

“Not at all. In the time of Elvhenan, eluvians were used by everyone, but some, particularly those that accessed secret places, required passwords for entry. Sometimes, a single word or phrase, and sometimes particular spellworkings, known only to a select few.”

“So it _is_ a doorway,” Merrill breathed. “Athera, I was right!”

Athera smiled back at her, her eyes warm.

“I never doubted it for a second,” she said honestly.

Merrill slumped back on the bed, suddenly drooping as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“So, how can we tell if it needs a password?” 

“Well,” Solas said slowly. “If everything else is in working order, and yet we still can’t pass through, then it follows that the password is what’s missing. If you like, I would be happy to go through the process you used to restore it, and look for any potential problems.”

“Would you really? That would be brilliant,” Merrill breathed. “When can we start?”

Solas turned to Athera, as though awaiting permission, and she scoffed and held up her hands.

“Don’t look at me, I’m not your mamae.”

A rare, true smile lit up the Dread Wolf’s face.

“Would now work?”

Merrill flung herself off the bed, and whooped.

**

Athera left the two apostates hunched in the eluvian’s glow, heads bent close to one another as Solas pored over Merrill’s extensive notes. She liked to think that she had a fair enough grasp of magical theory, but the considerable calculations that had gone into restoring the ancient doorway had left her head spinning in minutes.

After an hour spent watching the two of them get increasingly excited over things she didn’t understand, she’d made her excuses and left. She ignored the fact that it had stung a little when Solas had barely glanced up from his work to acknowledge that she was leaving.

Still, like she’d told him, it wasn’t as if she was his mamae.

She made her way back to the Hanged Man, taking the long route via the market and soaking up the Kirkwall streets. There was misery here, yes, but there was also hope, as Varric so often insisted.

For every beggar, there was a stallholder. For every painfully thin elf, there was someone like Merrill working tirelessly to help them. And for every Templar, there was someone like Hawke, proudly standing with the mages and doing everything in her power to set them free.

She was home. Or, at least, she was as close to home as she could ever remember being.

Lost in her thoughts, it took her a moment to spot the strange elf trailing her a few paces behind in the crowd. She tensed at once, but years in the revas’shiral had taught her subtlety. She didn’t miss a step, drawing a steadying breath and keeping him in sight out of the corner of her eye as she walked.

She wasn’t sure what had drawn her attention to him. At first glance, he was incredibly ordinary, long dark hair and a shabby grey robe, his head bowed low to the ground like so many of the city elves that called the alienage home.

She shook herself mentally. She was just being paranoid. What would a city elf want with her? She was too heavily armed to be worth pick-pocketing, and no-one save her companions knew of her association with Hawke. 

Still, she paused at a stall, picking up a carved wooden trinket and pretending to examine it closely. The strange elf stopped two stalls away, giving every appearance of being engrossed in conversation with the vendor. 

“Are you gonna buy that or what?”

The stern looking shem manning the stall glared at her, and she dipped her head in apology and replaced the ornament, making sure to avert her eyes. Her vallaslin marked her out as Dalish, but she was still an elf, and it wouldn’t be smart to cause trouble unnecessarily.

She moved on, her heart stuttering as the strange elf followed a few paces behind.

There was no mistaking it now; he was tailing her.

She walked at an even pace away from the market, weaving through the heaving crowds that had grown over the course of the afternoon. He kept pace easily, and she felt a spark of fear kindle in her chest.

The alienage was closer, but she had no desire to bring danger to Merrill’s door, where both Fen’Harel and an eluvian were currently hidden.

On the other hand, she couldn’t head straight to the Hanged Man, either, which was Hawke’s unofficial base in the city, and Varric’s home. 

Her only option was to lose him. 

Her decision made, she picked up her pace, noting with a quick glance over her shoulder that he did the same. She slipped down a side-street, hurrying through the quieter area, and then plunged into another crowd.

He followed.

The crush of bodies surrounded her, and she slipped beneath out-stretched arms, her heart pounding in her chest.

Another side-street, and he began to fall behind.

When she entered the next crowd, sweat was sticking her shirt to her back, but she had a plan. She moved as far into the press of bodies as she could whilst still keeping her line of vision clear, and as soon as she saw him emerge from the alley and catch sight of her, she took a risk and ducked.

Hidden beneath the taller shems, many of them letting out shocked cries at the bizarre behaviour of the Dalish elf, she moved in a crouch, and a few metres forward, she stuck out her leg and tripped one of the nobles.

A great cry went up at once, and in the clamour, she fade-stepped straight from the swarm and into a shadowed alcove. From the shade, she watched as the strange elf stumbled and was pulled into the fray, his hood falling back as he cast around looking for her.

He didn’t find her.

With adrenaline still running through her veins, she left the increasingly agitated mob, and plunged back into Kirkwall’s centre.

When she finally made it back to the Hanged Man, breathing heavily, Varric took one look at her and got up from his seat.

“Let me guess. Trouble?”

She slumped against the door, her cheeks flushed.

“Trouble,” she confirmed.

He sighed.

“Sit down. I’ll get us a drink.”

**

It was well past dark when Merrill and Solas finally returned, striding inside together and talking like old friends.

Athera had spent the rest of the day with Varric, filling him in on as much as she could about the last few weeks without giving away the Dread Wolf’s secret. He’d laughed and needled at all the right parts, scribbling down details on the Dalish for some future story or another he had in mind, and rolling his eyes dramatically when he realised that Solas was as enthralled with the eluvian as Merrill.

On the point of the elf that had tried to follow her though, they were both as confused as each other. 

“It doesn’t sound like any of the people after Hawke,” he said, and Athera had to agree.

“You don’t think it could be someone from Tevinter?” He suggested. “You are a part of the revas’shiral after all.”

“The Imperium using elven spies? They’d never send them out alone into Thedas. They’d never be able to trust them to return.”

“True.”

“And I haven’t completed a rescue in over two years,” she reminded him. “It would hardly be me they’d look out for.”

He lapsed into silence, and she sipped at her ale uneasily. The only other explanation she could come up with was that someone knew about the eluvian, or about Merrill. Blood mages were still shunned, and the Templars still had friends in the city working to round them up.

Was it possible that they’d seen them together in the morning, and considered her new arrival in the city to be evidence of a potential weak spot to exploit? 

She didn’t know, but she did know that she’d have to be careful.

“Are you going to tell them?” Varric asked, as Merrill and Solas talked animatedly at the bar.

She watched them from a distance, taking note of the way Solas’ eyes lit up and Merrill kept tripping over her words in an effort to speak even quicker. They still hadn’t been over to greet them, and she’d be lying if she said it didn’t sting. 

“No,” she decided at last. “Let’s not worry them needlessly.”

Varric hummed, and she frowned into her ale.

She was _not_ jealous of the attention Solas was paying to Merrill.

She wasn’t.

She sighed, and Varric cocked an eyebrow at her knowingly.

“Shut up,” she grumbled.

She really hoped that she wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to happen...!


	23. Considerations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric gives Athera a talking to

Jealousy is a hot emotion, and Athera has had little experience with it before. It’s because of the novelty of the feeling that it takes her a few days to understand why she keeps scowling whenever she thinks of Merrill; why Solas’ late returns to the bar and shining eyes make her irritable; why she constantly seems to be forcing a smile whenever the young mage exclaims, yet again, about how brilliant the dreamer is. 

In the end, it’s something embarrassingly simple that tips her over the edge, from unfocused annoyance into horrified understanding.

The four of them are sitting at their usual table, five nights after Merrill first revealed the eluvian to them, and once again, Varric and Athera are listening bemusedly to the two apostates chattering. 

Athera, for her part, is fed up of hearing about the damn eluvian.

Yes, it’s remarkable. And yes, she desperately wants it to work. And yes, Merrill _is_ brilliant, but there’s only so much time a person can invest in a conversation when they can hardly understand the topic.

Besides which, she’s noticed the strange elf twice more since slipping away from him in the market, and Hawke and Fenris are still yet to return. While Varric has done his best to occupy her time, without Fenris to arrange a meeting with the leaders of the revas’shiral, or Hawke to tell her what needs to be done in the city, or the ability to go for a stroll without attracting the unwanted attention of her anonymous city elf, she’s found herself at something of a loss.

Which makes it even more annoying that Solas is so enthralled by the eluvian, and Merrill so enthralled by him. 

Of course, she hadn’t consciously thought of it in those terms, until Solas leant back in his chair one night, and smiled warmly at Merrill.

“It has been a great many years since I’ve met someone with such a remarkable mind,” he said. “If I am grateful for one thing, it is that we had the opportunity to meet.”

And just like that, the vague sense of irritation that had been plaguing her for days, crystallised violently into a seething, hot hurt in her chest. She looked quickly down into her tankard, embarrassed by the sudden racing of her heart and the prickling sensation on the back of her neck.

Rationally, she knew that it was true. Merrill’s mind _was_ remarkable, and while Athera considered herself to be intelligent, she was well aware that her real skills lay in more practical matters; in hunting, and tracking, and _people_. 

She had never felt the need to compare herself to Merrill before. The mage was her friend, and she valued her intelligence and her drive. But until now, she had never felt herself to be lacking by association.

Now, she can suddenly see that compared to her friend, she is hopelessly uninteresting. Up until this point, she has taken it as a simple fact that it is her the Dread Wolf is fascinated by; her he would seek out to learn more about the world with; her that he would come to when he knew what he needed to do.

But why would it be? Yes, she’d saved his life, but she would also be the first to say that she was nothing special. Merrill, on the other hand, is a genius.

Her hubris astounds her, and the sudden understanding of her own short-sighted certainty, shames her entirely.

All at once, she is guilty about her jealousy. Horrified by her arrogance. Ashamed that she would think herself so special. And hurt that Solas doesn’t think as highly of her as she thinks of him.

Then, of course, she’s infuriated that she’s allowed herself to become so vulnerable to his good opinion - or lack of it. And if there was ever any more proof needed that she wasn’t a genius like Merrill, it’s that she still, despite everything, covets the respect of the Dread Wolf.

She is furious with herself.

She stands up from the table suddenly, and announces her intention to go to bed. Without waiting for a reply, she hurries upstairs, and in the dark of her bedroom she curses herself for all she’s worth.

She is nothing special. She has known so all her life. 

So why does the fact that Solas knows it too, make her want to cry?

***

It’s mid-morning when she finally manages to convince herself to go downstairs, and that’s only because she knows that Merrill and Solas will already be gone, away to the alienage to work on their extraordinary project.

She should be happy for them. She tries to be. Solas is lonely and adrift, and his brilliant mind has found a kindred spirit after thousands of years without one. Likewise, she loves Merrill like a sister, and has always known that her exceptional intelligence has been as much of a burden to her as it has been a gift, keeping her on the outside of everyone else’s reality, trapped in a world of her own. 

It must be a relief to find someone who can finally keep up with you. Who can discuss the things you love at a level so far beyond everyone else. 

And she knows that Merrill has never looked down on anyone simply because they can’t keep pace with the vibrant path of her thoughts. It wouldn’t even occur to her to be so cruel.

It’s this she holds onto as she makes her tea, and sits by the window staring out at the street. 

When they come back, she decides, she will be good to them. She will listen to them talk, and celebrate their discoveries, and try to accept that she simply can’t compete.

It could be a good thing. The more value Solas sees in the world, the more he will try to save it. And if it turns out that it’s Merrill who’s the one to show him those things? Well, Athera had a life before the Dread Wolf, and she’ll certainly have one after him. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. 

Maybe her part in this story is over after all.

She is pulled out of her thoughts by Varric sitting in the chair opposite her, and fixing her with a look that she knows means he’s about to say something she doesn’t want to hear.

“So, the whole meeting-of-the-gigantic-brains-club thing is getting to you, huh?”

She can’t help it. She groans.

“Is it really that obvious?”

“To me? Yes. Luckily for you, the excitable intellectuals are too busy being too clever for their own good to have noticed that anything’s wrong yet.”

“Thank Mythal for small mercies,” she says wryly.

Varric pours himself a cup of tea from her steaming pot, and busies himself with stirring honey into it.

“So, go on then. Talk to me.”

She sips her own tea, simply for something to do with her hands, and ignores the fact that it’s hot enough to burn.

“What do you want me to say?”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

She shrugs. There’s a tightness in her throat that she doesn’t like, and Varric’s knowing stare isn’t helping.

“You like him.”

It isn’t a question, but she nods anyway, then shakes her head, then huffs at her own indecision and puts her mug back down on the table with a little too much force.

“I don’t know what I feel about him,” she answers honestly.

“That means you like him.”

She frowns.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“No, but if past experience is any indicator of future experience, that won’t stop you from telling me.”

He grins, and then his expression softens into something serious and tender that makes her want to hide.

“I think you’ve only told us part of the story between the two of you.”

She opens her mouth to deny it, but Varric holds up his hands to stall her.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing. Your business is your business. But you forget that I know you, Starfire, and I can tell you’re setting yourself up to get hurt.”

She isn’t sure what to say to that, so she sips her tea again before replying.

“Why?” She asks quietly, and realises that she really does want to know the answer.

“Because you aren’t like other people.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Great. Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. It’s just… Aw, hell. I’m not going to end up saying this right.”

“Say it anyway.”

She leans her elbows on the table and focuses her attention on him, and after a moment, he lets out a sigh and nods.

“Every person has a different language,” he says at last. “A different way they share themselves with other people, and a different way they hope to have other people share themselves with them.”

He pauses, frowning.

“It’s how I build a character, right at the very start of a book. I have to figure out their love language.”

She chokes, mildly horrified.

“No-one ever said anything about _love!_ ”

Varric laughs at her stricken expression.

“I don’t mean love in that way, although it can play a part. I mean in the way they show care to others, or expect to receive it.”

He draws a hand over his eyes.

“I’m really not explaining this right at all. Let me see if I can think of an example…” She waits while he considers. “Ok, so for instance, how do you think I show care to the people around me?”

“That’s easy,” she says at once. “You tell stories.”

“Right. Good. I tell stories. I distract. I joke. I try and draw people out of themselves by showing them something outside of themselves that might help. And I hope they know that they can come to me when they think that my kind of help is what they need.”

She considers this carefully.

“Ok, I think I understand,” she says. “You’re basically saying that different people show care in different ways.”

“Exactly, but it’s not just that. It’s that different people value different types of care in return as well. Take Fenris, for instance. Gruff, broody, emotionally constipated-” Athera laughs. “-but put him in a room with Hawke, and he would follow her to the ends of the earth, because she knows how to speak his love language.”

“Which is?”

“Firm, take no bullshit, private kindness and public strength,” he says at once.

She takes another sip of tea.

“And this has to do with me and Solas, how?”

“Because your love language is _need_ ,” he says quietly. “And it’s a beautiful thing when it’s done right, but it’s also the most dangerous kind there is. For you, at least.”

She looks back at him steadily.

“Explain,” she says at last.

He takes a long draught of his tea and turns his gaze towards the window.

“As long as I’ve known you,” he begins. “You’ve been different to everyone else. Other people expect something in return from a relationship, be it friends, or lovers, or whatever. But not you. When you decide you care about someone, you go all in, without a thought of receiving anything in return.”

“Of course,” she says, surprised. “Why wouldn’t I, if I care about someone?”

He smiles at her, a little sadly.

“That’s just the thing, Starfire. You have an uncanny ability for seeing what people need, even sometimes before they know it themselves. Then your instinct is to try and provide it.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s a dangerous thing,” he insists. “Because you end up in a situation where the relationship is unbalanced, even though you don’t mean it to be. I don’t think you’re even aware you’re doing it half the time, but you create situations where you make yourself invaluable to someone else.”

He sighs.

“I saw it happen with Halin, who couldn’t bear to make a decision without you. I’ve seen it happen with Merrill, who could hardly get out of bed without your help in the first few months after her Keeper got herself possessed. Andraste’s tits, I’ve even seen it happen with Fenris. You make yourself invaluable, and you build them back up into something strong, and then when they’re strong enough not to need you anymore, you grieve their loss even while you celebrate their happiness.”

She looks down, her jaw clenching.

“When you put it like that, you make it sound terrible,” she says softly. “You make it sound like I _want_ them to still be dependent on me.”

“No, Starfire,” Varric insists. “I know that you don’t. It’s what makes you such a fierce friend. A _remarkable_ friend. But for all of the love and care you pour into everybody else, it’s always you who’s left alone in the end. You patch them up, and you give them everything, and you make it so they can stand on their own two feet.”

She swallows, hard.

“And then when they stop needing you so desperately, you step back, and you let them go, and it’s worked for you before because they were _just friends_ , and they were still there in some way or another. But in a relationship? A real relationship?”

He pauses, waiting for her to say something, but she shakes her head and motions for him to continue.

“I can see quite clearly that Chuckles cares for you. For all of the weird, aloof, prickly shit that he does, he seems to be an okay guy at heart. But whatever happened out there between you two, you’ve ended up in a situation where he’s been reliant on you, and now that you care about him, seeing him turn around and celebrate his new lease of life with someone else, feels like someone’s punched you in the gut. Am I right?”

She grips the mug between her hands, and nods quickly once.

“But it’s not as though I don’t want him to be happy!” She says unhappily. “I do. More than anything. Its’s just…”

“It’s just that when he needed you, you could be sure that he would stay,” Varric says gently.

Tears well in her eyes and she looks away.

“You’ve lost so many people, Starfire,” the rogue continues softly. “It’s only natural to want to hold the people you have as close as you can. But the problem with your love language, is that it leaves you completely exposed, and it doesn’t give the other person the chance to reciprocate.”

She blinks a tear down her cheek and wipes it away hurriedly.

“You give everything away all at once. All the love. All the care. You become whatever they need you to be, and then you lose yourself inside of it. And at the end? If they aren’t able to give you the same in return? – and, let’s be honest, most people would struggle – it leaves you feeling as though you’ve been used, even though it was your choice to give so much away. Even if you never expected anything in return. It still hurts.”

She takes another gulp of tea, her hands shaking.

“You want to be needed,” Varric says softly. “But in doing so, you also become reliant on them. And when they don’t need you anymore, you let them walk away because you want what’s best for them, and you never even think to ask for what you want in return.”

She sniffs and scrubs in embarrassment at her eyes, offering him a watery smile.

“By the Blight, Varric. With a psychological evaluation like that, you should be a writer,” she jokes weakly, and the dwarf is kind enough to laugh while she rearranges herself into something less fragile.

“You’re right,” she says at last. “You’re completely right. But I don’t know how to be any other way. I can’t imagine just…” She waves her hand helplessly. “ _Leaving_ when someone is in pain. I want to make it better.”

He sighs.

“I know you do, Starfire. But you have to be able to help yourself as well.”

“But how do I do that?”

“By telling them what you want.”

She frowns down at the mug in her hands, unwilling to recognise the cold sensation of fear that settles along her spine.

“But you don’t do that,” Varric says gently. “Because that would give them the opportunity to reject you, and you’d rather they walk away quietly, after you’ve given them everything, than risk putting yourself in the position of being wounded.”

Athera’s eyes sting, and she doesn’t meet his gaze.

“The thing about your love language, Starfire, is that you’re very good at seeing what people need, but you forget that other people can’t always see what you need. You create a space where someone can be completely vulnerable with you, without risk of being hurt, but you don’t offer them the chance to provide the same space for you. You become their rock, and then you’re the one left hurting because they didn’t know how to support you in return.”

She hates this entire conversation. She hates Varric for starting it. But mostly, she hates that he’s completely right.

“But what if I don’t know what I need from them? She asks in a small voice. “What then?”

Varric smiles at her gently. 

“I think you do know what you need from them. You just don’t want to admit it to yourself. Because if you admit it-”

“-it makes me vulnerable,” she finishes.

“Exactly.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, and then Varric refills her mug.

“The thing is, Starfire, I’m pretty sure that out of everyone in the world, your apostate friend is going to be the last person to have any idea about what it is you need, or want from him. He’s aloof, and prideful, and so hyper-intelligent that he sometimes makes even Merrill seem slow,” Varric sighs. “Those kinds of people aren’t necessarily selfish, but they do get far too consumed with all the shit going on in their own heads, to properly pay attention to what’s right in front of them. You can’t expect Chuckles to realise that he’s hurting you, if you don’t tell him why.”

“But I don’t want him to feel like he _has_ to give me anything,” she argues. “I didn’t help him because I expected anything in return, I did it because it was the right thing to do. It’s not his fault I started to care about him.”

Varric pierces her with his gaze.

“And that, right there, is the problem.”

She blinks at him, even more confused than before.

“You see nothing wrong with caring for someone else, but the second that anyone suggests that they might want to care for you too, you suddenly see it as some terrible burden you’re placing on them, and not just as a natural part of an equal relationship.”

Varric shakes his head.

“There’s only so much self-sacrifice you can indulge in, before it becomes self-harm. And it’s even worse than that, because you won’t even give the other person the chance to prove that they care for you as well. Don’t you see how wrong that is?”

Her bottom lip trembles, and she bites down on it hard.

“The people who care about you _want_ the chance to show you. When you don’t tell them how they can, and you just let them slip away, it leaves them with no idea about your true feelings, and you more fragile than you were before. And they don’t even realise they’ve hurt you. How could they, when you’re so happy to help them however you can?”

She drops her head into her hands.

“Creators, Varric. You don’t mince your words.”

He grins and points at himself.

“ _Writer._ ”

She offers him a brittle laugh in response, and tries to sit with what he’s told her. She’s never considered her impulse to help as being part of the same impulse that keeps people at arm’s length before, but the way Varric tells it, it is. He’s right, in that she values being needed. She likes to feel that she’s giving her friends the support they need to be happy. But if she offers them nothing real of herself in return, then it can only ever be an unequal connection.

The problem, is that the thought of needing to be taken care of herself, makes her want to crawl into a hole and never look another person in the eye ever again. And if that person is the Dread Wolf, and so much more masterful than her? Then the vulnerability of letting him truly see her is intensified to an impossible degree. 

“I’m screwed,” she mumbles into her hands, drawing a loud laugh from the rogue sitting opposite her.

“Nah, not screwed,” he disagrees. “Just slightly fingered, maybe.”

The laugh she gives him in return surprises her, and when she next looks up again they’re both grinning.

“I should be so lucky,” she says dryly.

“Hey, whatever you and Chuckles do on your own time is none of my business.”

The blush that rises to her face is so embarrassingly warm, she’s certain she could be seen from the sky. 

**

When Solas and Merrill arrive back that night, Athera’s feelings are still an unsettling fog of conflicting impulses. But she doesn’t have too much time to dwell on them. At once, the two apostates push through the crush of bodies and hurry towards their table, even more breathless with excitement than usual.

“We did it!” Merrill exclaims, her eyes shining while Solas stands proudly at her side. “We found a way through to the other side!”

“Would you like to accompany us?” Solas asks her, a glint in his eye as he extends her his hand.

Her mouth goes dry. She smiles.

"I wouldn't miss it," she says honestly, and allows him to pull her up from her seat.

She is absolutely screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has absolutely nothing to do with this chapter, but I just learnt that the heartbreaking music during Solas' conversation with the Inquisitor at the end of Trespasser is entitled 'The Lost Elf', and now I have too many feelings. 
> 
> THE. LOST. ELF. *sobs*


	24. The Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill, Solas, and Athera enter the Crossroads.

Varric had waved them off with a blithe “you crazy kids have fun, the only doorway I’m going through tonight is the one to my bedroom,” so it was only the three of them that made the night time walk back to the alienage.

Between her conversation with Varric, worries about the city elf, and Solas walking a little too closely at her side, Athera’s nerves were already tightly wound by the time they stepped into Merrill’s room.

The presence of the eluvian was imposing in the dark, and the magic felt somehow more potent than before, warming her as she walked inside.

Both Merrill and Solas seemed giddy with excitement; Merrill practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, and the Dread Wolf’s eyes glinting with anticipation.

Despite what she’d told Solas before, she really was starting to feel like their mamae, shepherding the da’lens on a play-date and trying to stop them from getting into trouble on the way. 

“I assume this is safe?” She asked, eyeing the artefact warily.

“Quite safe,” Solas reassured her. “In all honesty, it would have been safe before as well. Merrill did a remarkable job with the restoration.”

He sent the young mage an approving smile that made her blush, and Athera firmly ignored the rush of jealousy that swooped low in her stomach.

“I didn’t doubt it,” she said honestly. “Merrill’s brilliant.”

At that, she blushed even more deeply, and Athera’s guilt roared in response. It wasn’t Merrill’s fault she’d gone and developed feelings for the infuriating wolf, after all, and it wasn’t as if the mage could help but be herself.

“What did you do differently?”

“It was nothing to do with the restoration,” Solas explained. “It was as I thought. The eluvian needed a password.”

She frowned.

“And you found it?”

“Not exactly-”

“It was _brilliant_ ,” Merrill interrupted. “He found a loophole in the magic. I didn’t even know there _could_ be loopholes in magic!”

Athera shook her head, a bemused smile pulling at her lips.

“I’m afraid you’ve already lost me.”

“It’s quite simple, really,” Solas said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Most people think of magic as something ethereal, unpredictable, but if that were the case, then no mage would ever achieve any form of control. In fact, magic is a natural phenomenon, like the wind or the tides. The only difference is that it’s held back by the veil, and so accessible to only a few who possess the proper sensitivity.”

He caught her eye, and she felt a primal rush of admiration and awe as his lips quirked up, the only allowance he made to the secret knowledge they shared between them. 

Between Fenris and Hawke, and Kirkwall and Isera, she’d hardly had time to consider the larger ramifications of Solas’ history.

It was startling and humbling to be reminded, here between the walls of the crumbling alienage, that she was standing in the presence of the one man in the world who’d possessed the knowledge and power to create the most remarkable enchantment history had ever seen. 

It was _his_ veil that held back the Fade. The very thought made her head spin.

“As such,” Solas continued, oblivious to her thoughts. “All enchantments possess certain rules they must follow in order to be effective.”

“Like how a waterfall flows down but never up,” Athera nodded her understanding, and was gratified when Solas’ eyes crinkled with approval.

“Exactly.” 

“So,” she guessed. “You found a way to reverse the rules? Or make the enchantment behave differently to its original purpose?”

He smiled at her, pleased.

“Just so,” he nodded. “Ordinarily, an eluvian’s magic runs on a closed circuit. A feedback loop, if you will, that connects two places via the means of the Fade, outside of the realm of the waking world. The password is a separate enchantment that works somewhat like a parasite, siphoning the power back into the Fade until it’s provided with a phrase or a spell that reverses the flow, and feeds it back into the eluvian.”

Athera furrowed her brow, attempting to follow his reasoning to its logical conclusion.

“So, in the same way that a rock can divert a river just as easily as a tree, you found an enchantment that could provide the same effect as the password, without requiring the exact spellwork or phrase?”

He beamed at her.

“Just so,” he said again, a soft pride in his voice that made her heart flutter. 

“Sadly, the only enchantment we could find that worked also breaks the path completely,” Merrill said regretfully. “We’ll only be able to use it once to get through, and after that, if we wanted to go back again we’d need the proper key.”

“So, this is a one-time trip?” She clarified.

“For now,” Solas confirmed. “But it’s better to have known wonder once and lost it, than to never have known it at all.”

Her expression softened as Merrill fussed around behind the great mirror, filling a pack with supplies and throwing hers and Solas’ staffs onto the bed.

“Very poetic,” she teased gently.

The tips of Solas’ ears flushed pink, and he smiled a little bashfully.

“That reminds me,” she continued in a low voice. “I think I threatened to write you poetry, once upon a time.”

Solas huffed through his nose, but his expression was pleased.

“Ah, yes, I think I do remember that,” he said, equally softly. “Something about the ways in which I was too fluffy to be a part of villainous society?”

She grinned.

“Just so,” she echoed him, and his eyes flashed in challenge.

“Got it!” Merrill suddenly crowed, and both Solas and Athera took a step back, suddenly becoming aware that they’d been leaning closer to each other while they talked.

“Here you go.”

A quiver of arrows was thrust into her hands, and Athera blinked down at it dumbly.

“I already have arrows,” she said. 

“Not like these. These are ironbark, the strongest you’ll find. I figured if we were going somewhere none of us had ever been before, we should probably be prepared.”

Athera stared down at them, and then nodded in agreement and stored them in the quiver that was already strapped to her back.

“Good point.”

“I know,” the mage replied airily, and then beamed at them both. “So, are we ready?”

***

The magic Solas used to enter the eluvian was like nothing she’d ever seen before. He used his staff as an anchor, drawing Fade energy through the veil, and then wrapping it around the fingers of his other hand like a string. In a series of delicate flicks and curls, it began to pulse steadily, the feel of it like spirit magic, except for the sharp taste of heat that caught in the back of her throat and reminded her of a summer wind blown from the desert.

The heat built steadily, as though he were holding a small sun in the palm of his hand, and then with a gentle nudge of his wrist, the orb floated to the eluvian’s surface, and was absorbed as though it had never been.

For a long moment, no-one spoke.

“Did it work?” Athera asked at last.

“Only one way to find out,” Merrill said.

“Allow me,” Solas murmured.

In the next moment, he had stepped through the eluvian, and was gone.

In that second, Athera experienced an almost elemental rush of horror. He was the Dread Wolf. The eluvian was a path to all manner of other places. She still had no idea what he intended to do. He was gone and he was never coming back and _she had lost the Dread Wolf again_ , because she had allowed him to step through a magical mirror to some unknown place that he had probably had a hand in building thousands of years ago; before he destroyed it all.

What had she been thinking?

Just before her panic could take hold and drive her towards hysteria, Merrill let out a cry of victory, and dived through after him without a second thought.

Athera stood, frozen and alone in the alienage, staring at the place where they had been. And then she swore.

“Damn, foolish, stupid, impossible, reckless, infuriating, _brilliant_ wolf!”

Without another thought, she launched herself through the undulating surface, gasping as a surge of magic drenched her from her head to her toes, as though the whole of the Fade had suddenly reached out to claim her. For a moment, she was lost to the sensation, and then a warm hand snaked out to grasp her by the wrist, and pull her the rest of the way through.

She stumbled into Solas’ arms, breathing heavily, her eyes wide and her whole body singing. When she finally managed to steady herself and look up into his face, she saw the same exultant joy in his eyes, and she was mesmerised. 

The very air around them hummed with magic. She felt as though a part of herself she hadn’t realised was missing had suddenly slotted back into place, sharpening all of her senses.

And she could feel the power emanating from Solas, as though rippling across his very skin. Here, he was strong, and proud, and _jubilant_. The happiness in his eyes and the flush of his cheeks was intoxicating. She knew, without a doubt, that she could get lost in him.

As she found her feet again, his hands loosened their grip on hers, but before he let go, he brushed his lips across the edge of her ear, and she shuddered as his breath ghosted over her skin.

“Welcome home,” he murmured warmly, before stepping back and away, and leaving her to blink dazedly at her surroundings.

The place was like nothing she’d ever seen before. The area they were standing in looked like a stone courtyard, except that everything was just that little bit strange; like looking at a reflection suspended on dust.

Great paths branched away from them, spiralling up into the air. Shattered chunks of masonry hung, suspended by some invisible thread. The sky above them seemed endless, streaked with green Fade energy and humming with power. And below them, the same expanse of everything and nothing all at once, twisted into infinity. 

Every few metres, another eluvian appeared through the mist, some leaning perilously to one side, others crumbled almost into dust; all of them cracked and dark, whereas theirs still glowed with electrifying blue light.

A few paces away from them, Merrill stood completely still, her pack held loosely at her side, as she stared numbly around her as though trying to take in everything all at once. It was the first time in her life she had ever seen the mage lost for words.

She looked back at Solas, who was watching her with barely-disguised anticipation. She thought, for a moment, of how he seemed at home here; another lost piece of Elvhenan’s empire, standing amidst its ruins. The thought made her strangely sad, and the weight of what he’d lost settled like a stone in her stomach.

She wanted to reach for him, and tell him how sorry she was. Instead, she said:

“The air tastes of home.”

To her surprise, her voice sounded hoarse, the emotion of the place overwhelming her before she’d consciously realised it.

Solas’ eyes softened, and he swallowed, as though concerned about the tenor of his own voice.

“This is the Crossroads,” he said. “One of the places in-between.”

“In-between what?” Merrill asked, finally seeming to come out of her trance and turning to look at them.

“The waking world and the Fade,” he said softly. “It was a place created by the Elvhen. A nexus between places, linked by the eluvians.”

His footsteps were almost silent as he began to walk forward, his gaze growing sorrowful and his voice gentling in the silence.

“I have seen this place in memories in the Fade,” he said. “But it was different then. Vibrant. Filled with people and light.”

“So, all of these mirrors,” Merrill concluded. “Were doorways across the empire?”

Solas nodded.

“And outside of it as well. Doors that opened into the Fade itself, and some that should never have been stepped through.”

He had positioned himself with his back to them, but Athera guessed that if she could have seen his face, it would be drawn in the sorrow of his memories.

“Is it safe, do you think?” Merrill asked.

Solas turned back to face them, his mild-mannered mask back in place.

“I see no reason that it shouldn’t be, although I would proceed with caution, and keep your eluvian in sight. Best not to stray too far along paths that have already been broken.”

The Crossroads had the same feeling as a place of worship; or a mausoleum. Athera was struck by the need to whisper, and to keep her steps light. Merrill drifted ahead, already bending to examine the broken eluvians more closely, but she lingered, her eyes on Solas.

“Ir abelas, falon,” she said softly, when she was sure the young mage was out of earshot. “This was part of your home.”

He looked back at her, a sad smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes,” he said simply. “And it was my miscalculation that destroyed it.” 

He stepped closer to her, and they fell into step, weaving slowly between the eluvians together beneath the Fade-brushed sky.

“So much of Elvhenan’s society was dependent upon the use of magic, but I had no idea how much until I locked it away. With the Fade pushed back, the paths between places shattered. Whole cities were stranded, locked away behind the mirrors, never to be seen again.”

The quiet despair in his voice was harrowing to hear.

“If I had known…” He drew a slow breath. “If I’d had any other choice…”

He met her gaze with a miserable quirk of his lips.

“This would not have been the future I would have chosen, for my home or my people.”

Wordlessly, she slipped her hand into his. He swallowed and drew in a quivering breath, and then tightened his grip on her and pulled her close.

Before she could register the movement, she was standing in the circle of his arms, his chin resting on top of her head while his heart beat too quickly beneath her ear. She released the hand that was caught between their bodies, and wrapped her arms around his back, holding him close, even as Varric’s words came back to haunt her again.

_You become whatever they need you to be, and then you lose yourself inside of it._

Was that what she was doing, standing here with her arms around the Dread Wolf, in the tomb he’d made of his home? 

She had no idea. Here, with the Fade so close and magic in the air, she felt the aching loss of what the elves should have been; of what she should have been, if only Fen’Harel had found another way. 

If only the Evanuris hadn’t kept slaves.

If only they hadn’t tried to destroy their world.

She drew in a shaky breath.

If he hadn’t destroyed Elvhenan, what would the world have been? Would they have found another way? Or would she, in the world he had saved them from, have found herself a slave, beaten and bloodied at the whims of the powerful?

She has no way of knowing. The only thing she does know, is the frantic beat of the wolf’s lonely heart pulsing beneath her ear, and the shuddering breaths he tries to smother in the thick waves of her hair.

“Was there another way?” She asks against his chest. “Do you think there could have been another path to take?”

He holds her firmly, and turns his face to rest his cheek on her head.

“I could not find one,” he whispers at last. “I don’t believe that anybody could.”

She nods. It’s as much of a truth as either of them are ever going to know. When she pulls away again, the Dread Wolf looks back at her, a man with grief in his eyes and the weight of a world on his shoulders.

She squeezes his hand.

“I forgive you,” she says softly.

That’s when Merrill starts to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I'm spoiling you now; two updates in one day!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Ir abelas, falon - I'm sorry, my friend


	25. Trickster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel's plans come to fruition. Kind of.

The two bare-faced elves stood frozen, held in place by Merrill’s magic, their faces twisted in horror and fury as they struggled to free themselves from her spell. Behind them, a second eluvian glowed blue, the air humming around it and flowers blooming through its frame. 

Athera fade-stepped to her friend’s side, an arrow already nocked in her bow.

“Who are you?” She demanded. “What do you want? How did you come to be here?”

Calmly, Solas appeared beside her, his gaze intent and unsurprised.

“I do not believe they can answer,” he said. “Merrill’s spell is particularly effective.”

Merrill started to panic.

“But who are they?” She asked, her voice rising. “How could they be here? What do we do?”

The two elves looked back at them, one with auburn hair cropped close to his head. The other was a woman, dark-eyed and ebony-haired, her expression fierce.

Solas spoke directly to them, his voice low and soothing.

“In a moment, I am going to ask my companion to cancel the spell,” he said. “When she does, I want you to listen to me calmly. It would be in your best interests to do so. Do you understand?”

The man watched him warily, considering, but the woman’s anger didn’t abate. Solas nodded, as though their forced silence were an agreement.

“Ok,” he said. “On the count of three, I want you to release the spell.”

Merrill looked back at him with wide, fearful eyes.

“But they’re armed!” She argued. “What if they attack?”

“Their daggers are no match for three mages,” Solas replied smoothly. “Especially here, with the Fade so close. If they’re smart, they will realise this as well.”

At his words, the woman’s gaze turned calculating, and Athera could see the man considering Solas with renewed interest.

“One,” Solas began.

Athera began to draw on the veil.

“Two.”

Merrill set her jaw.

“Three.”

It happened in an instant. Merrill cancelled the spell, and the two elves reacted. The woman attempted to slip through the eluvian at her back, and the man lunged forward with a dagger in each hand. He bounced back against Athera’s shield, impossibly strong as it fed on the magic in the air, and stumbled into the woman, sending them both to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs. 

Athera turned, triumphant, just in time to see Solas hold his hand out in front of Merrill’s face.

“Sleep,” he commanded.

The mage dropped to the ground as though her limbs were made of water, and he caught her just before she hit the stone.

Instantly, Athera flew to her side.

“What did you _do?_ ” She demanded, her arms instinctively reaching out to cradle Merrill’s head.

“Ir abelas,” Solas replied evenly. “But it is best she remain unaware of our conversation.”

The two elves had already scrambled to their feet, and now they lingered, uncertain, at the threshold of the eluvian, staring between Solas and Merrill with matching expressions of confusion.

“You are members of spymaster Briala’s resistance, are you not?” Solas addressed them. “Felassan informed me I may find you here.”

It was the woman who stepped forward, her gaze clearing hesitantly.

“You know Felassan?”

“For a great many years,” Solas nodded.

She made no effort to hide the suspicion on her face. 

“Where is he then?” She spat. “Briala has sent out agents time and time again, and we have found neither hide nor hair of him. She’s worried. We all are.”

Athera watched, thoughts spinning, as Solas dipped his head, his manner reverting with a single gesture from controlled leader, to humble servant. The effect was destabilising.

“I am sorry that I cannot ease her fears. My only contact with Felassan for some weeks has been in the Fade,” he replied. “Our cell leader does not provide me with every detail of his movements, as I’m sure you can appreciate.” 

He sighed, giving every appearance of weary concern. 

“In fact, that is why I am here. Felassan was our only link to Briala. I had hoped that her agents might have more information with which to guide our next steps.”

Athera watched numbly from her position on the ground, as the two spies relaxed and regarded Solas with tentative camaraderie.

“I’m sorry we can’t ease your fears,” the man said. “But we will pass on what you’ve told us to Briala. Perhaps it will bring her some comfort to know that Felassan’s allies are still eager to work for our cause.”

“Ma serannas,” Solas replied, inclining his head. “I am glad we could meet. If I do make contact with Felassan, who shall I say bore my message?”

“I’m Iona, and this is Soris,” the woman answered.

“And you, lethallin?”

Solas considered them for a moment.

“Revas,” he said at last. “My name is Revas.”

“We will pass on your message to Briala, and seek news where we can,” Iona decided.

Her eyes slipped down to where Athera still knelt on the ground, Merrill breathing softly in her arms.

“And your friend?” She asked. “Can she be trusted?”

“I would trust her with my life,” Solas said firmly.

Athera met his gaze, but could discern no obvious emotion behind it. Unfortunate, since she was certain that her own eyes were blazing with anger.

“As you say,” Soris nodded. “We must leave now. Be safe on your journey, wherever it may take you.”

“Dareth shiral.”

They turned back to the eluvian, and Iona raised her hand.

“Fen’Harel enansal,” she said clearly, and then the two elves stepped through the mirror, and were gone.

Athera’s fury was interrupted by a sudden spike of confusion.

“Did she just say _Fen’Harel?_ ” She asked incredulously.

Solas’ eyes sparked and he smiled smugly.

“The Dread Wolf’s blessing,” he confirmed, and then shook his head, still smiling. “I should have known that Felassan’s influence would have had far-reaching consequences. Of course, the irony is no doubt still lost on Briala.”

Athera’s thoughts did cartwheels over themselves in their struggle for supremacy. Eventually, anger won out over curiosity.

She climbed back to her feet, laying Merril’s head gently against the floor as she did.

“You have five seconds to explain to me what’s happening,” she hissed. “Or I swear by the Blight that I will take back every positive thought I’ve ever had about you, and have Corff kick you out of the Hanged Man so fast, your ears will spin and you’ll be lucky to hold onto your leggings.”

To her growing ire, Solas’ self-satisfied expression didn’t fade. If anything, it grew.

“It’s really quite simple,” he said. “The agent that betrayed me handed the keystone to the eluvian network to Briala, Empress Celene’s elven spymaster. As such, I had no means of acquiring the password. Now, thanks to our fortuitous run-in with her agents, I have the password despite Felassan’s best attempts to keep it from me. 

He smiled.

“A reasonable night’s work, don’t you think?”

He stared back at her proudly, clearly expecting her to be impressed, but Athera’s thoughts had turned in quite another direction entirely. She grit her teeth together and drew in a steadying breath.

“Let me be clear here,” she began, dangerously softly. “You’re telling me, that not only did you know that we would encounter heavily armed spies here, but that you _planned_ for it?”

Solas’ pleased expression began to waver slightly. 

“Not only that,” she continued. “But you didn’t think to warn anyone else to be on their guard for dangerous elven agents patrolling through the Crossroads-”

Solas opened his mouth to interrupt, but she held up her hand and hurried on.

“-and while Merrill has poured her heart and soul into this eluvian, this singular _dream_ of discovering what was beyond, you helped her to access it knowing that as soon as you arrived here, you would take control and put her to sleep the moment you were able to get what you wanted?”

Solas began to look distinctly uncomfortable and opened his mouth again, but Athera wasn’t done.

“And in doing this, you realise that you not only took advantage of Merrill’s trust, you also betrayed _mine?_ ”

At this, Solas took a step forward, his expression stricken.

“I didn’t-”

“ _Yes you did,_ ” she snapped, eyes blazing. “Did it ever occur to you that I am not one of your agents? That I have never actually agreed to champion the Dread Wolf’s political ambitions in Thedas?”

He frowned, confusion plain on his face. She pushed on.

“I agreed to be your friend, Solas. Your _friend_. Not your subordinate, not someone you can order to destroy the world if it pleases you. Not someone to bear the burden of spies and subterfuge and world-altering decisions.”

She drew in a shaky breath, her throat tight.

“I stayed with you because I care about you, not because I want to see this world bend to your will. I don’t even know what you plan to do with these eluvians if you gain control of them, and quite frankly, I’m not sure I want to.”

She drew a hand over her face, her heart beating raggedly in her chest.

“But you’ve made me a part of it anyway!” She forced out at last. “Without my knowledge, or my _consent_ , you’ve made me an unwitting accomplice to your plans. You let me welcome you into my friend’s lives, and then you used them to get what you wanted.”

The lump in her throat grew, and her voice began to shake.

“You used _me,_ ” she whispered finally, and looked away as hot tears welled in her eyes and the ache in her chest grew.

Solas’ expression was now wretched, and he reached out and caught both of her hands in his, trying desperately to catch her eye.

“Athera,” he entreated her. “Falon-”

She scoffed, and his anguished expression grew.

“Please, that was never my intent. I swear it.”

“Really?” She snapped, turning her gaze back to his. “So, these last few days of working with Merrill, you _haven’t_ been planning this exact scenario?”

He flinched as though she’d struck him, and dropped his eyes from hers, his mouth twisting unhappily.

“Ir abelas,” he replied. “I was so caught up in my own plans. I just didn’t think.”

She laughed bitterly.

“ _I just didn’t think,_ ” she echoed. “At this point, I suspect that could be the final sentence on your gravestone.”

His grip on her hands was bruising, and his gaze was trained on the ground.

“Perhaps it will be,” he whispered.

Silence fell between them, and she watched as his shoulders rose and fell with his shaking breaths, his head bowed low and penitent before her. Her own pain pulsed in time with the beat of her heart. She felt stupid; foolish to have ever trusted him. And what was worse, she’d put Merrill in danger too. 

She saw, now, that no matter how much he claimed to value her, no matter how he insisted that his plans were on hold, the Dread Wolf’s duty would always come first. Misdirection was essential to his personality. In the end, did it really matter that he was lying to himself just as successfully as he’d lied to her? 

Varric’s words came back to her again.

_I think you do know what you need from them. You just don’t want to admit it to yourself._

With a sudden flash of insight, she knew what she needed from the Dread Wolf. And in almost the same breath, she realised it was something he would never be able to give.

She needed to know that she could trust him.

It felt like she was shattering something, when she gently pried his hands from hers. She did it anyway, and steadfastly ignored the shadow of misery that fell across his face.

“We have to get Merrill back to the alienage,” she said quietly.

He bent to pick her up, but Athera’s hand shot out to stay him.

“No,” she said sharply. “I will take her.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, and then stepped back and away.

“Ma nuvenin,” he replied, his voice hoarse, and all traces of his earlier victory forgotten.

She cast a spell to lighten her body, and then slipped her arms beneath her friend and lifted her easily. Guilt settled, hollow and tortured in her stomach, as she stared down at the mage in her arms. All of her sacrifices to get here; all of her work and her teeming, brilliant mind had been bent to a singular purpose, and it had all been snatched away by Fen’Harel’s plans.

Athera brushed a tender kiss to her forehead in apology, and began to walk back the way they came. Solas followed her in silence a few paces behind, and she tried not to think about what would happen when they returned to the world again.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realise that Solas had stopped walking until his voice called her back, as she stood on the threshold of Merrill’s eluvian and the passage back to reality.

“Athera.”

She turned, expecting him to be close behind her, and then startled when her gaze found him almost on the other side of the courtyard, staring rigidly into another eluvian. She swallowed once to clear her throat, her thoughts still fixed on the alienage and the sleeping mage in her arms.

“What is it?” She called.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. She squinted through the mist towards him, a ripple of fear running down her spine as her gaze caught on the black surface of the mirror he was inspecting.

“Solas?”

He turned half-way to face her, a concerned frown pulling low over his eyes. But before he could reply, a clawed hand shot out of the pulsing black surface, trailing blood and gore. Before Athera could cry out a warning, it had tangled itself in his tunic; and pulled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist a second cliff-hanger, sorry! :P 
> 
> ALSO, we all saw the DA4 trailer, right? RIGHT? 
> 
> THE DREAD WOLF RISES INDEED. 
> 
> *Screams endlessly in excitement*
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry  
> Ma serannas - Thank you  
> Lethallin - kin  
> Revas - Freedom  
> Dareth shiral - Safe journey  
> Fen'Harel enansal - Dread Wolf's blessing  
> Falon - Friend (Used only for very close friends)  
> Ma nuvenin - As you say


	26. Corrupted

She would have nightmares about it, later, when the adrenaline had faded and all the world was quiet. 

In her dreams, it wasn’t the grasping claw that consumed her thoughts. It wasn’t the stringy flesh and deep red blood that stained his torn tunic. It wasn’t even Merrill’s weight in her arms, as she lowered her to the floor to run towards him. 

It was his eyes.

They pierced her from across the paths. Wide in shock, their storm-grey bright through the mist, and wild with the kind of fear that could stop a heart in its tracks. And then they were gone, swallowed by the throbbing darkness along with the rest of him, too quickly to have even provoked his screams.

Athera did scream.

“ _Solas!_ ”

One of his hands was still wrapped around the frame, white and straining on the stone, while the dark surface of the mirror began to spread outwards like smoke, leeching into the air. 

She fade-stepped without thinking and plunged her arm through after him, her other wrapped tightly around the rock as a ballast. The surface of the eluvian was cold, but beyond it, her skin sizzled with unnatural heat.

Her fingers reached out and closed around his shoulder, and she hauled him towards her blindly, clutching through the material of his tunic and clawing at his skin. His hand left the rock and grasped at her arm, and she bit back a scream as his frantic grip bruised her, clinging on with every ounce of strength she possessed as something hot and liquid began to spill over the hand that held him.

She felt panic burn in her chest as more of the warm wetness spread across her skin beyond the dark surface, fighting back images of Solas bleeding to death mere inches away, and already lost to her. 

“Come on!” She shouted desperately. “Come _on_.”

A sharp pain lanced across her arm and she cried out, but hung on grimly. She would not let him go. Not like this. Not screaming and frightened in the dark. She would never forgive herself.

But the darkness was spreading beyond the mirror, the wraith-like smoke burning her eyes and choking in the back of her throat. A sudden stinging sensation at her feet made her look down, only to see two more sets of clawed hands scrabbling across the stone, reaching into the Crossroads.

They were like no demon’s hands she’d ever seen; and no darkspawn either. They were human in shape, except for the dark scales that spread over the skin like a patchwork, and the razor-sharp talons that gouged holes in the rock. 

She stamped down hard on the nearest one, sweat dripping down her face and her breathing becoming laboured as the smoke became thicker. The claws retreated through the surface, and suddenly Solas lurched forwards, his other hand plunging back through the eluvian to clutch desperately at her waist.

A wave of nausea overcame her as she saw the fabric hanging in tattered scraps from his arm, drenched in red and torn into shreds. 

She stamped down hard on a second claw, and with another desperate tug, Solas’ head and shoulders plunged back through the eluvian, streaked with blood and hysterical with fear.

“Athera,” he gasped, breathless and afraid. “Athera, please, don’t let them get me. _Don’t let them get me._ ” 

She hooked her arms beneath his shoulders and his fingers scrabbled at her back, his face pushed into her shoulder as she planted her feet firmly against the stone-ridge beneath the eluvian and pushed backwards for all she was worth.

“I won’t,” she panted, muscles straining. “I’ve got you.”

A gnarled hand reached out and clutched at her ankle, and Solas let loose an agonised scream against her skin as he was tugged sharply backwards, nearly vanishing back inside the mirror again. 

“ _Athera!_ ”

She grunted with the effort of holding him to her, her vision nearly completely swallowed by the smoke.

Solas was whimpering with fear, mumbling a stream of panicked Elvhen so quickly against her neck that she could only pick out key phrases. Among them, _help me, please,_ and – she thought – _my nightmares are made real to destroy me._

With a great force of will, she channelled a spark of lightning through her body to her feet, and as the electricity jumped between the reaching hands, Solas let out another cry, and they both tumbled backwards as he fell free. 

His clothes were ripped into rags, and he was so covered in blood and gore that she could barely identify any injuries; but not for nothing was he an ancient general. He was on his feet at once, summoning his staff back through the mirror and into his hand, where it channelled power to itself like a lightning strike.

She could only watch in awe as a shield of impossible strength sprang up between them and the eluvian; and then recoil in horror as a creature pulled itself free and took its first lurching steps into the Crossroads.

It was humanoid, strong, its pale skin nearly consumed by dark scales, with long hair that tumbled around a snarling face. Both its feet and hands were bent and twisted, ending in vicious looking talons, and the ragged clothes that hung from its body resembled some kind of armour.

With a spike of terror, she realised it reminded her of an elf.

As she watched, it turned its black eyes to Solas and let loose a piercing howl, baring jagged teeth, dark with blood, as it launched itself towards him. The Dread Wolf paled, and she finally managed to scramble to her feet and stand at his side as the twisted creature bounced back against his shield.

She strung her bow, and let her arrow fly.

It found its mark in the monster’s neck, and dark blood bubbled from its mouth as it fell. But more clawed hands appeared, wrapping around the shuddering frame and hauling their way through.

“We have to get out of here!” She called to Solas, attempting to tug him back towards Merrill.

“We can’t,” he bit out, his arms trembling as he struggled to stay standing. “Not without destroying the mirror first.”

She swore, and sent another arrow into the next creature that pushed its head free of the surface.

“What do you need me to do?” 

“Maintain the shield,” he wheezed, breath shuddering. “I will end this.”

She drew on the veil with all her might, pouring every ounce of fear and panic into her barrier and casting it between them. Sweat dripped down her face as Solas let his shield fall, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him begin to cast feverishly, drawing energy to himself like a magnet and channelling it into the eluvian.

The air grew thick with the taste of o-zone and thunder. Athera’s arms ached. More clawed hands burst through the mirror, only to disappear again as they made contact with Solas’ spell. The eluvian began to glow like a sword heating beneath a blacksmith’s anvil. 

And then, with a sound like the whole world was cracking, the mirror split down the middle, the black smoke vanishing back inside as the magic collapsed in on itself, and the groaning artefact shattered.

Athera was blown backwards off her feet, landing on her back near Merrill and gasping as the air was knocked from her lungs. Dust and magic crackled in the mist, and she sat up, blinking dazedly as she cast around for Solas.

A moment later, she found him, lying a few metres away and curled in on himself; a quivering mound in the gloom, tacky with blood.

“Solas,’ she choked, pulling herself towards him. “Solas, are you ok?”

She reached out and turned him over, meeting blank, horrified eyes as he clutched his arms to each other as though trying to hold himself together. She had never known anyone to shake so violently as she forced him into a sitting position, and his hands grasped for hers.

“ _Fenedhis._ ”

There were great gouges torn out of his back, and burns tracing the length of one side of his body. Most of the blood, she realised with a shard of relief, was not his own. She didn’t linger too long on where it might have come from.

She needed to get him out of here. She needed to get them _all_ out of here. But there was one thing she had to be certain of first.

She cupped his face between her hands, and forced him to meet her gaze.

“Were they blighted?” She demanded. 

He blinked at her, too stunned to respond, dark blood trickling down his face, and his lips parted and quivering.

“ _Solas,_ ” she insisted. “I need to know. Do we have the taint?”

His eyes focused on her with some difficulty, and a moment later he shook his head. 

“N- n- no,” he stuttered. “Not tainted. They weren’t-” he broke off, shuddering, and then shook his head again. “N- no. They were s- something else.”

A wave of relief took her, and she dropped her forehead to his and ignored the way her heart clenched as he trembled.

“Come on,” she said at last. “We need to go.”

With some difficulty, she helped him to his feet, and he leant heavily on her as they made their way back to Merrill’s eluvian. He didn’t say a word as she pushed him through, and with a deep breath and a final glance back at the Crossroads, still swirling with dust and sparking with magic, she lifted Merrill into her arms, and stepped through after him.

**

Solas was still standing in the middle of the room when she joined him. He didn’t appear to notice them as she laid Merrill on the bed and tucked the blankets around her with shaking fingers. Outside the window, it was still dark, and the sudden shock of feeling the Fade now trapped behind the veil made a cold feeling grow in her stomach.

She shook it away and turned towards Solas, taking in his torn and bloodied clothes and the vacant expression in his eyes. 

“How long will she sleep for?” She asked him. 

He didn’t answer. She stalked towards him and gripped him by the shoulders. 

“Solas, _how long will Merrill sleep for?_ ” 

He swayed a little, his eyes flicking to the mage and back again.

“Morning,” he said dully. “She will sleep until morning.”

Athera let out a breath. That was good. She could leave her here safely and come up with some explanation for what had happened tomorrow. The bigger problem, was how she was going to get the Dread Wolf across Kirkwall looking as though he’d taken a dive into a river of blood, without attracting unwanted attention.

She dug under Merrill’s bed for some blankets and wrapped them around him, hiding the worst of the stains. He was pliant and unresponsive as she manoeuvred him, his eyes unfocused, fixed on some distant reality too terrible to contemplate.

She guided him to the door, and he went willingly, hardly seeming to notice as she cast a set of simple wards meant to divert attention from them, and lead him outside. 

**

Varric met them at the back-door to the Hanged Man, taking one look at Solas - shuddering, pale, and streaked with gore - and swearing creatively.

“Daisy?” He asked her sharply.

“Safe. Asleep. She doesn’t know what happened.”

He let out a long breath.

“Thank the Maker for small mercies,” he said. “Get him to my rooms, quickly.”

Varric’s rooms were larger than the rest of the tavern’s accommodation. A rickety double bed sat against one wall, alongside a shabby dresser. A desk tilted beneath the window, strewn with parchment, and a dividing curtain hid a small tin bath from view, while a fire crackled merrily in the hearth.

She didn’t want to lead Solas to the bed in the state he was in, so she sat him down on a rug in front of the fire, and proceeded to strip away his tattered tunic and remove what was left of his leggings.

Varric slammed the door behind them and locked it.

“What the _hell_ happened?” He demanded.

Athera barely spared him a glance, sending a wash of magic over Solas and seeking out his injuries.

“The eluvian lead to somewhere called the Crossroads,” she managed. “It’s a place between this world and the Fade, where there are lots of _other_ eluvians all going to different places.”

“Let me guess, you tried to go through one of them?”

She shook her head, frightened by the blankness in Solas’ eyes.

“No,” she adapted her story quickly. “Two elves came through one from somewhere else. They cast a sleep spell that Merrill got the full force of before Solas and I sent them back again. We were about to leave, when…”

She broke off, a belated panic suddenly sparking through her body and making her drop her head to her knees.

Her ears rang and her vision tunnelled. She thought she might be about to be sick.

She heard Varric come to a stop beside her and rest his hand on her back.

“Easy, Starfire,” he said gently. “Hold it together now. I can’t cope with both of you turning catatonic on me, ok?”

She nodded and drew in a steadying breath.

“Right, sorry.”

She lifted her head, staring into the Dread Wolf’s face as he looked at something far beyond the room.

“ _Something_ came out of the mirror,” she said quietly. “It grabbed him and pulled him through. I only just managed to hold onto him. When he came out again, he was like this.”

She swallowed.

“He was so scared, Varric,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen anyone so scared.”

The dwarf let out a long breath.

“Well, shit,” he said. “What do we do?”

“I need to get him cleaned up, and then deal with his injuries,” she said. “I don’t think they’re life-threatening, but his back’s a mess. After that…”

She stared into Solas’ blank face. She didn’t think he even knew they were there.

“After that, I don’t know.”

They stood Solas in the bath, wearing nothing but his smalls, and Varric helped her pour buckets of gently warmed water over him until the worst of the blood was gone. She watched it swirl into the drain beneath them in curls of red that shimmered in the firelight. 

The Dread Wolf didn’t make a sound, but when she helped him out again and Varric began to fill the bath from the well of rainwater on the roof, feeding it through a pipe that hung from the ceiling, he suddenly shuddered as though returning to the room, and his eyes sought out hers with frantic intensity.

“It’s alright,” she soothed him automatically. “You’re safe. We just need to get you cleaned up, ok?”

While the bath filled, his eyes never left hers, and he clung to her hand as though he might drift away if she let go. She held his gaze, and Varric squeezed her shoulder and slipped from the room quietly without another word. Somehow, she knew, the dwarf would be sleeping in her room tonight.

She cast a fire rune beneath the bath, heating the water, and silently helped Solas back in. He shuddered as he submerged himself, biting back a hiss of pain as the deep claw marks on his back and the burns along his side met the steaming warmth.

Slowly, she guided him to sit forward, and used a cloth to dab gently at the wounds, glad that he couldn’t see her blush as he roused himself enough to remove his smalls, and dropped them with a resounding smack onto the floorboards. Wordlessly, she passed him another cloth, keeping her attention focused on the healing magic she fed into his wounds, as he cleaned himself more thoroughly and she felt her face flame.

Before long, she’d managed to knit the flesh back together, but vivid red marks still marred the smooth plane of his skin, and the burns only settled into a series of blisters that ran the length of his flank. 

She poured cold water onto a cloth and laid it gently across the bubbling skin, resting her hand on the back of his head as he flinched and gripped the side of the bathtub tightly.

“Keep that there for a little while,” she said softly. “It will be better if we can take the burn out quickly.”

She moved to his side and knelt down, keeping her eyes focused on his face as he slipped a warm, damp hand into hers and held on. 

His eyes were closed now, his forehead drawn into a pained frown. She was struck by the startling display of trust he had placed in her, not even watching her movements as he laid there, naked and wounded in the water. 

Before, she had thought the Dread Wolf’s mood swings were giving her vertigo, but now her own feelings towards him were changing just as rapidly. 

They sat in silence save for the gentle lap of the water and the crackling of the fire, his hand holding tight to hers as she ran her thumb over his knuckles. The image of him disappearing through the mirror, and of his panicked, blood-streaked face when she’d finally managed to haul him back through, replayed in her mind on a loop, and left her reluctant to let him go.

Eventually, she removed the cloth from his side, and released him to cross the room and get a towel. When she came back, his eyes were open, watching her with a fragile, haunted expression that made her want to look away.

She opened the towel for him and he stood on shaky legs, wrapping it around his waist and climbing back out again. She busied herself with draining the water and wiping away the last traces of blood.

When she looked back, Solas was still standing in the middle of the room, water dripping onto the wood as he stared into the distance, lost.

She dug through Varric’s dresser, finding a spare set of leggings and a tunic that she suspected might once have belonged to Fenris. It would be a little loose on Solas, but it would have to do.

“Here,” she said, handing them to him. “Dry yourself off and put the leggings on.”

He stared down at them for a long moment, and then took them from her in silence. When he’d dressed himself again, she lead him to the bed, rummaging in Varric’s nightstand until she found an old jar of elfroot salve and settled herself next to him on the mattress.

“This will sting,” she warned.

He didn’t react as she rubbed the thick paste over the burns, binding them with strips of cloth torn from an old shirt, and helped him into his tunic.

In the silence that followed, she stared at his side profile; at the clenched jaw, pale skin, and shadows that collected beneath his eyes. He was trembling again, his hands shaking in his lap and his expression one of distant anguish. 

She didn’t want to know what had happened on the other side of the mirror. But if he was ever going to come back from this, he would need to tell her. She took hold of his shoulder gently.

“Lie down.”

He blinked rapidly, as though coming back to the room again, and she heard his breathing start to pick up. He reached for her as he moved to the far side of the bed, but it was as though a ghost were there in his place.

His arms stretched out, his hands opening, and his expression grew distant and confused as he turned himself towards her, somehow managing to be both desperate and listless in his movements at the same time. She lay down next to him, propping herself up on an elbow and staring down into his face, while her other hand curled around his cheek.

He curled into himself, never breaking eye-contact, and one of his hands came up to cling at her wrist.

“Talk to me,” she said softly. “What happened?”

He drew a shuddering breath in. She could feel his pulse pounding through his wrist. 

She waited.

He opened his mouth and closed it again, his eyes flicking across her face rapidly, watching some memory she was glad she couldn’t see. A rush of air left him, and the blank expression that had taken up residence behind his eyes suddenly sharpened into a formless terror, and he threw himself towards her and pressed his face into her shoulder.

“You should not have forgiven me,” he whispered in a terrible voice. “You do not know-” His chest heaved. “You _cannot_ know.”

The shaking in his muscles increased, and she wrapped an arm around him as he pulled back to stare into her eyes.

“Athera,” he croaked plaintively. “Athera. What have I done?”

And then he started to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athera's entire thought process at this point is basically: HOW am I meant to challenge the Dread Wolf when he keeps FALLING APART and nearly dying, damn it?!


	27. Elvhen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athera makes a choice. 
> 
> CW for some descriptions of gore and a minor amount of body horror - I don't think it's too bad but you might want to be aware!

She had held him before while he’d wept. Become strangely used to soothing him when the world threw another horror he wasn’t ready to deal with into his path.

This time was different.

There were no high, keening sobs. No desperate clutching as though he might be able to pull her into his skin, and in doing so, begin to feel safe again.

This new despair, whatever it was, was profound, and quiet, and devastating.

He sobbed soundlessly into her neck, choked gasps cutting off in his throat that seemed to come from somewhere so deep, she thought he must be on the cusp of vomiting. Instead of clinging to her, he simply collapsed, his arms around her and his whole body turning limp, pressing her down into the mattress as though all of his strength had fled.

This time, it was her who clutched him close, tightening her grip almost painfully to make up for the fact that he didn’t seem to be able to.

After long minutes, his fingers began to twist into her shirt, weak, feeble tugs at the material that drew soft, barely-there whimpers against her skin.

Misery poured from him, and she felt his tears warm the hollow of her collarbone as she rocked him, murmuring reassurances of safety into his ear that she wasn’t even sure he could hear.

Eventually, she began to nuzzle against his temple, tasting tears on her lips as he quivered in her arms, and drawing a pained noise from low in his throat as he struggled to get even closer to her.

When he’d finally calmed again, she could still feel his heart pounding against her chest, while he murmured near-silent pleas in Elvhen against her skin that she could neither hear clearly nor translate. 

“Solas,” she whispered, her throat tight. “Falon.”

Carefully, she drew him away so she could look into his face, and in a practiced motion, wiped his tears away with the pad of her thumbs. He drew in a convulsive breath, then another, and leant his forehead against hers, his expression hopelessly lost.

“Ir abelas,” he said, as though it were a question. “Ir abelas.”

She brushed a kiss to his forehead.

“Tell me,” she said.

He screwed up his eyes again and trembled against her.

“My fault,” he choked out at last. “It’s all my fault.”

She braced herself for what was to come.

“The mirrors,” he breathed. “The paths.”

He shook his head, tormented, and his fingers twined ever tighter in her shirt.

“My fault.”

He was still nearly incoherent, but she knew he needed to get this out. She moved into a sitting position, pulling him with her and settling him against the headboard, his hands slipping down to hold onto her arms.

“How is it your fault?” She asked quietly. “What were those things?”

All at once, his face twisted into a parody of a smile, and then he started to laugh; a high, feverish noise that plucked at her nerves and set her teeth on edge. Within a few moments, his laughter dissolved again into an awful, wounded sound, and she tugged him to her and let him muffle the cries in her shoulder until they’d faded away.

She had seen him frightened before, it was true. But this was the first time she’d ever truly been concerned for his sanity. 

When he looked up at her again, there was a storm of horror in his eyes, and his voice was haunting in its dread.

“They are what is left of the Elvhen,” he whispered hoarsely. “They are what happened when the paths between worlds were shattered.”

And then his face crumpled and he slumped into her chest, beyond the point of tears as his body grew limp with a soul-deep exhaustion she prayed she’d never feel. 

For a long moment, her mind was simply blank, and then a creeping sense of revulsion rippled through her blood and made bile rise into the back of her throat. 

“What do you mean, they were Elvhen?” She whispered, her voice cracking.

Images of clawed hands trailing flesh, dark eyes mad with hate, and a snarling mouth surrounded by scales, flickered behind her eyes.

“How can they be _Elvhen?_ ”

Tremors wracked Solas’ body, and despite the heat of the bath, a cold sweat had already started to break out across his skin.

“I told you,” he moaned into her chest. “I said the cities were sealed.”

His hands clutched convulsively at her, and then settled into stillness just as quickly again.

She tried to follow the line of his reasoning to the conclusion he’d reached, but her thoughts kept getting stuck on the claw-marks ripped into his back. Swallowing down nausea, she lifted him back up into a sitting position, meeting tormented eyes and too-pale lips as he returned her gaze with open torment.

“Explain it to me,” she said firmly, still not willing to believe it could be true. “If the cities were sealed, surely they would have died?”

He shook his head, his jaw drawn in misery.

“The Elvhen cities were not like those of today,” he told her hollowly. “Some were self-sustaining; great gardens and fields of food, carefully cultivated within the borders, capable of supporting thousands.”

She swallowed.

“And, others?”

He shuddered, his eyes falling shut again and a pained grimace pulling at his lips.

“There were others,” he whispered. “That relied on the world outside to survive. You must understand,” he opened his eyes, and his gaze pierced her. “Beyond the eluvians, some areas existed within pockets of the Fade itself. There…”

He shook his head, breaking away from her as though concerned he was going to be sick. She rubbed his back as he drew in great lungfuls of air, and waited for the nausea to pass.

“There, they would have had no means of food, no structure for survival when the paths shattered. But there are other ways, in the Fade, to survive.”

She licked her lips, not wanting to hear anymore, but knowing that she must.

“What other ways?” She asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He breathed raggedly, and turned his face away from her to speak.

“Within the Fade, they would have retained their magic,” he began, his voice strained. “There are spells of duplication, spells to…” He swallowed. “Spells that would grow flesh, take living meat and multiply it. Spells that require the corruption of spirits and terrible workings to harness.”

It took a moment for his meaning to reach her, and then she clapped a hand over her mouth to hold back the bile that threatened to spill from her throat.

“You’re saying they cannibalised each other,” she said shakily, when she was certain she could speak again.

“Not just cannibalised,” he corrected dully. “ _Grew_ from each other, from living hosts, shedding pieces of their spirit in return for pieces of flesh to keep themselves alive.”

Suddenly, Solas curled inwards as though someone had punched him, pressing his face into her lap and wrapping his arms around his waist, his breathing becoming strained. It was instinct that made her start to run her hands in circles across his back; it couldn’t have been anything else, with her thoughts so full of horror.

“What did you see?” She whispered. “What was on the other side?”

At first, he didn’t answer, and then he drew in a breath and lifted his head again, bringing his hands to her waist and holding her tightly, as though afraid she would try to leave. 

“A nightmare,” he breathed. “Darkness, and flame, and blood, so thick that the white stone of the buildings could hardly be seen. Flesh in the streets. Flesh hanging from balconies, pulsing like grotesque hearts while people screamed.”

He started to shake again, sweat pouring from his brow.

“A city of people so defiled they were like living ghouls, corrupted down to their very spirits, and turned mad with savagery and fear.”

He closed his eyes.

“I could taste it, in the Fade. The very air hummed with it. The smell of blood, and their primal need.”

“And what was their need?” She asked softly. “What did they want?”

His expression crumpled.

“To feed,” he choked. “And to be avenged.”

It took her a moment to understand, and then all of the blood drained from her face.

“They knew it was you,” she realised with horror. “They felt you through the Fade.”

His only answer was a building moan; a guttural, anguished noise that grew until it became a wail, and he pushed his face into her neck in a futile attempt to smother it. 

“It is my fault!” He howled into her skin. “My fault! I did this. I condemned them. Turned them into creatures, worse than the basest animal. Athera. Athera, ma halani. _Help me_.” A sob broke from his throat. “ _Please._ ”

The panic took him, and he shook and cried in her arms while she held him close, her mind struggling to wrap around the eternal horror he’d unwittingly created.

Please,” he murmured brokenly again. “Please, help me.”

He was quiet, then, exhaustion swallowing panic more effectively than true calm ever could.

“Don’t you see?” He asked softly. “If I leave the world as it is, if I do nothing, they will exist for an eternity there. A hell without end. I can’t abandon them to that fate.”

She had nothing to say to that, the true scope of his duty suddenly becoming far too great for her to process. She held him a little tighter, and kept up the gentle rocking motion that seemed to have soothed him.

“There will be others, too,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Places where the food was plentiful. Places where the Elvhen really did survive.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she pulled back to look at him, her eyes wide.

“You don’t mean…” She could hardly speak. “The ancients are still _alive?_ ”

He brought his hands up to cradle her face, his eyes red-rimmed and his expression beseeching. 

“I could release them. Athera,” he pleaded. “They could be free.”

**

They talked for another hour after that, and Solas told her of all that had been lost; and of what might still be saved. He spoke of cities with endless gardens, blooming with life, where the Elvhen may yet still live, inside their imprisoned society. He described the enchantments of immeasurable strength that kept the population centres locked away, and of the kind of power he would need if he were to access them again. 

And in halting whispers and torrents of tears, he described the cities that had fallen, where monsters roamed in the Elvhen’s place, doomed to their twisted eternity unless he destroyed what he’d made.

Eventually, he slumped back against the pillows, holding onto her weakly, a terrible shiver running down his spine.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confessed brokenly. “I thought I knew, before…”

He met her gaze with aching tenderness.

“Before you, it was so simple,” he smiled without joy. “My path was terrible, but it was simple. If this world was filled with shadows, then of course I would sacrifice it to free my People, and save the modern elves from mortality.”

He shook his head, and blinked silent tears down his cheeks.

“Now, I do not know how I can go on.”

She wiped his tears away in silence, an automatic gesture she barely noticed, until he caught her hand and held it to his cheek. 

“Athera,” he whispered. “How can I abandon them?”

It was not a rhetorical question. Every fibre of him craved an answer, but she didn’t know how to give it to him. She felt as though this was the first time she had truly understood the burden he bore, and now that she did, she had no idea how he’d carried it for so long.

Whole civilisations were locked away and waiting for Solas to free them. Entire cities had been damned to eternal torment, cursing the Dread Wolf with every breath, even as he fought to end their suffering. Elves like her existed as an underclass in Thedas, bruised and battered at the whims of the shems.

And they would all die, anyway, one day, unlike his ancient kin who endured across the ages. 

She had thought that his crusade was in many ways simply a symptom of his guilt; a longing for a lost world that he would never be able to truly recreate, no matter how much he destroyed along the way. Now, she saw that it was far more than that.

It was a symptom of his guilt, yes, but it was not merely a nation of long-dead ghosts whose memory he hoped to honour with a new world. There were thousands of living people depending on him for their deliverance, whether they realised it or not.

It was impossible. Whichever path he chose, he was doomed to destroy as well as to liberate. 

No one man could bear such a choice.

Suddenly, his fragility and desperate need for comfort made sublime and perfect sense. If she were him, she would have grabbed at the first offer of safety and clung onto it for dear life, too.

Tears welled in her eyes.

“Oh, ma fen,” she breathed softly, and was only a little surprised when his hands shot out to cradle her face.

“Say that again,” he pleaded hoarsely. 

She swallowed the lump in her throat and brought her other hand to his cheek as well.

“Ma fen.”

An expression of pure longing fought for supremacy with the agony in his eyes, and then he brought his face close to hers, his breath hot against her mouth.

“Am I?” He asked, soft and hesitant. “Am I yours?”

She licked her lips, heart pounding, aware that he was offering her a choice that she wasn’t ready to make. Her heart warred with her head as his gaze held hers, the two of them suspended in a moment of bated breath and fragile hope. 

His lips trembled. Her throat burned.

“Foolish wolf,” she whispered.

And then she kissed him.

He melted against her, a choked noise cutting off in his throat as his lips moved softly, reverently, over hers. His hands held her face securely, his thumbs drifting down to press at the corners of her mouth. He pulled back to look at her, an expression of wonder in his eyes, and then he bent his head to hers and kissed her as though she were the only thing in the world.

She dug her fingers into the back of his neck, clinging to him as his trembling mouth consumed her. Had she ever been truly kissed before this? Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure.

His lips were soft and demanding, his kiss both achingly hesitant and sublimely assured. 

Her nerves sang, a coil of heat unspooling from her mouth to where his fingers drifted along her face, and melting lower to pool in her stomach, and set loose a flurry of butterflies that beat inside her chest. 

She mewled softly against him, pressing closer, and he answered her with his tongue, running it tenderly across the curve of her lower lip and then sucking it softly between his teeth.

He kissed her as though he were worshipping her, and she was lost.

When they finally broke apart, the look of wonder was still in his eyes, and he leant his forehead to her temple and wrapped his arms around her as though he might hold her there forever.

“Athera,” he breathed. “My impossible friend.” His chest rose and fell rapidly and he nuzzled his nose along her jaw. “My guiding star.”

She brushed her lips along the top of his head, not trusting herself to speak. Her heart was racing as though she’d been running, but he, at least, seemed to be lulled by her closeness.

He slipped into sleep quickly, exhausted and heavy in her arms, while she felt her whole world rearrange itself and bend to him.

She had made her choice. 

And she was terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It finally happened! First kiss! SO MANY TERRIBLE CHOICES.
> 
> I love them.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Ma halani - Help me  
> Ma fen - My wolf
> 
> PS: I've decided today that Solas painting murals literally everywhere is just the Dread Wolf writing his own version of dragon age fanfic. I hope you all enjoy that concept as much as I do :D


	28. Poetry

He woke countless times in the night, his heart pounding and a cry on his lips, only to find her arms around him, and lock his mouth to hers as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She kissed him deeply, ran her fingers along the back of his neck. She tucked him beneath her chin and whispered assurances in the dark.

She held him like he belonged with her; like he should always have been with her, and always should be.

She slept badly.

She had kissed the Dread Wolf. She’d kept on kissing the Dread Wolf. More worryingly, she didn’t want to _stop_ kissing the Dread Wolf. 

Even knowing the decisions he faced. Even knowing what he might do. Even knowing that there were hordes of twisted Elvhen eager for his blood, and countless others desperate for his help.

Even though her heart felt as though someone had run lightning through it and set her insides aflame.

When he finally woke for good in the morning, sunlight streaming through the dingy window and Kirkwall beginning to clamour outside their walls, he let out a sigh that was heavy with contentment and fragile with pain, and nuzzled softly into the skin beneath her jaw.

“Athera,” he whispered. 

It sounded like a prayer.

“Ma fen,” she returned quietly.

He moved up her body to kiss her softly, propping himself up on an elbow and surrounding her on all sides. 

Kissing him was like being kissed by a tide. She met him with trepidation, aware that she needed to keep her head, and then inevitably found herself swept away and lost to the press of his lips.

When he pulled away again, his expression was tender, and he traced the lines of her vallaslin with the tips of his fingers, an emotion she couldn’t name brimming behind his eyes.

“Athera,” he said again. “I am sorry.”

He ran his thumb across her bottom lip, his fingers rubbing small circles at her temple.

“I am…” He hesitated, and sighed. “I am selfish, and foolish, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t seem to stop myself from needing you.” He swallowed, and his voice fell to a whisper. “I can’t seem to stop myself from _wanting_ you.”

Her breath was frozen in her lungs, and she thought distantly that it didn’t really matter. Who needed to breathe, anyway? How could she, when he was looking at her as though the very sight of her was the answer to his every wish? 

“I…” His gaze slipped down, and then a spark of horror flashed across his face. “You’re hurt!”

He sat up suddenly, catching her arm in his hand and pulling the bloodied sleeve of her shirt up, drawing a surprised hiss of pain from between her teeth.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

She followed the line of his gaze to her arm, where vicious looking claw marks cut deep into the skin, their edges jagged and swollen, and already weeping with the beginnings of infection. Now that he’d mentioned it, it really did hurt. Actually, she realised, as the sudden sensation of burning took up residence along the length of her arm, it hurt _a lot_. 

She winced and pulled the wounded limb to her chest, cradling it gingerly and grimacing at its heat.

“I didn’t realise,” she answered honestly. And then her arm throbbed. “ _Fenedhis_ , that smarts.”

The soft expression was gone from Solas’ face. His lips drew into a thin line and his jaw tightened as he slipped from the bed, stalking across the room and returning with a cloth, and Varric’s washbasin filled with water.

She shifted to the edge of the bed, suddenly noticing that she was a little lightheaded and her skin was clammy. Solas sat next to her without a word, and she regarded him warily. He looked furious, but when he took hold of her wrist and guided her arm over the basin, his touch was impossibly gentle.

They sat in silence while he cleaned the wounds, and she dug the fingers of her other hand into the bed in an effort not to make a sound. She felt ridiculous. She _remembered_ the pain shooting down her arm when she’d tried to pull Solas back through the eluvian. With everything that had happened later, she’d simply forgotten about it.

And apparently, the Dread Wolf wasn’t happy.

She studied his face as he worked, his expression suddenly shuttered and his eyebrows drawn into a frown. 

“Are you angry with me?” She asked quietly, as he dried her arm and began to channel healing magic through the wounds.

He let out a long breath through his nose.

“No,” he said, angrily.

She dropped her gaze to the floor, and flinched as the ragged edges of the wound caught against his fingers.

He sighed.

“Ir abelas,” he said, more gently this time. “I am not angry with you. I am angry at myself.”

He brushed his hand down her arm and twined their fingers together, his gaze lingering on the partially-healed claw marks in her skin.

“It is my fault you were put in such danger in the Crossroads.”

She squeezed his hand.

“You couldn’t have predicted what happened,” she said honestly. “And it was worse for you, in the end.”

He frowned down at their joined hands, considering.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But as you said before, I did not think. I put my own plans first, and exposed both you and Merrill to Briala’s agents. I had decided that they would be of no danger to you, but I did not allow you to make the decision for yourself.” 

He sighed.

“It is not an excuse, but it has been millennia since I last had a friend who was only a friend, and not someone who was also caught up in the war.”

His thumb drew circles on the back of her hand, and he lifted his head to smile at her sadly.

“I have told you more than once that I am a selfish man, but the truth is, I have simply become used to being a leader. Too used, perhaps, to everything that entails.”

He looked away again, and she waited, knowing that there was more he wanted to say.

“For thousands of years, everyone has looked to me. I have taken counsel, and made plans with agents and generals and slaves, but in the end, it has always been me.”

He swallowed, a shadow of his earlier anguish falling over his face.

“I have always been the one who had to choose. It was my burden to bear. Such a role, however difficult, has afforded me respect, awe, fear, loyalty, and revulsion, in equal measure. It has never offered me kindness.”

He looked back at her, his expression hesitant and wanting.

“You have shown me more kindness these last two months than I have experienced in the rest of my life until now,” he murmured. “It is…” He hesitated. “It is wonderful, and unsettling, and _frightening_. Last night, you saved me from a nightmare, and then…”

His eyes shone.

“And then, you cared for me,” he whispered, his voice thick. “Not because I was a leader. Not because you needed me to be well enough to make choices that no-one else could ever make. But because you wanted to help _me_.”

He drew in a shaky breath, struggling for composure.

“And now I see that in your need to help me, you neglected yourself, and that I was too caught up in my own distress to think about yours.”

He stared down at the wounds in her arm, his expression pained.

“I do not understand that kind of care. And I do not know how to be properly responsible for it. For _you_.”

The sentiment was so close to Varric’s warning to her, that she had to look away.

“I don’t need you to be responsible for me,” she argued gently. “I made my own choice to help you. It’s my fault if I get hurt.”

Somewhere inside her head, she could see Varric frowning, and Solas’ eyes widened as he shook his head emphatically.

“No, Athera,” he insisted. “Don’t you understand? I _want_ to care for you. And I want to be worthy of your care. I just have no experience of putting someone else’s needs before my own.” 

He paused, and then chuckled bitterly. 

“Or before my duty, at any rate.”

He shook his head again, and she could almost hear Varric laughing at her.

_You don’t give them a chance to reciprocate._

She felt her face flame

_Tell them what you need._

She drew in a deep breath.

“If we’re being completely honest with each other,” she said nervously, and Solas raised his eyes to hers again. “While you are unfamiliar with caring for someone, then I have to confess, that I am unfamiliar with being cared for.” She frowned. “It is not a position that comes easily to me.”

His gaze softened, and he lifted their hands to place a soft kiss to her knuckles.

“I do not understand the way you are,” he said quietly. “I do not understand your care. I do not know how to be with someone who puts themselves in danger for me, and not for the cause I lead. It is…” 

He sighed. 

“It is a different kind of burden, and one that I have no experience with.”

She looked down quickly, her throat thick.

“A burden,” she repeated.

Solas reached out and tilted her face back to his, a tender smile on his face.

“No, Athera,” he said gently. “My bright star. I do not mean it as a bad thing. But it is new, and I am unfamiliar with...”

He hesitated, and then huffed through his nose, a peculiar lilt to his mouth.

“I have not felt another person’s pain so keenly for thousands of years,” he admitted. “And I have not been so driven to protect someone in all of my life, I think. It’s ironic, really, since I seem to be the one that so consistently places you in harm’s way.”

His expression had turned bitter as he spoke. Athera leant forward and took his chin in her hand, pressing her lips to his, and feeling her heart skip a beat as he wrapped his arms around her waist and deepened the kiss at once. 

When he pulled back, his gaze was warm and sad, and he brushed his lips once more over hers before getting to his feet.

“I can’t close the wounds completely until I can be sure the infection is gone,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment. I’m going to see if Corff can provide us with some clean bandages.”

He left the room with an uncertain smile over his shoulder, and as the door closed behind him, Athera lay back on the bed, her head spinning.

Yesterday, her only plan had been to convince her friend, the Dread Wolf, not to destroy the world. It was a ridiculous enough aim then; as was being his friend. 

Now, she was something else to him entirely – although she had no idea what - and their situation had just become a thousand times more complicated. What was worse, was that she couldn’t even tell anyone about it. She could only imagine how that would go.

 _Hi Varric, so, I have a problem. I think I might be in a relationship with Solas. But here’s the thing, he’s actually an ancient Elvhen god who destroyed the world and can turn into a wolf whenever he likes. He’s lead a resistance against slavery for thousands of years, and accidentally doomed his People to a lifetime of torture and pain. The problem is, if he wants to save them, he sort of has to destroy this world and everything in it._

_Oh, by the way, he kisses better than anyone I’ve ever known, and he’s surprisingly good at important emotional conversations, despite being terrible at everything else._

_So, what do you think? Got any advice?_

She chuckled unhappily to herself. She would have to call that Plan B. 

When Solas returned, he’d found some bandages behind the bar. She let him apply a thick layer of elfroot salve to the wounds, and tried to ignore the way her heart fluttered as he bound them with such delicate care. 

“There,” he said softly. “All done.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to the bandage and caught her hand in his, but this time, he didn’t meet her eye. She steeled herself towards some kind of sense.

“You need to think,” she said quietly.

He nodded.

“Yes.”

She unlinked their hands, offering him a reassuring smile when he looked up sharply in concern. 

“I do, too.”

For a long moment, he watched her with a soft, yearning expression, and then he set his jaw, and nodded quickly once.

“I will leave you to get ready for the day,” he said, getting to his feet. “Merrill is downstairs. I think it would be best if you spoke to her. I am still not certain what you told Varric of our experience in the Crossroads, and I wouldn’t like to contradict you.”

She sighed, offering him a weary smile as he lingered at the door.

“I’ll talk to her after I’ve taken advantage of Varric’s bath,” she decided.

“Ma nuvenin,” he replied, his expression fond.

He hesitated, as though he’d have liked to have said more, but then he dipped his head a final time, and left without another word.

She dropped her head into her hands. She had no idea what she was doing.

***

Solas had left the bar by the time she came downstairs, but Merrill and Varric were sitting at the rogue’s usual table, and they both stood up when she entered, their expressions concerned. 

“I’m ok,” she reassured them, as two sets of eyes slipped down to her bandaged arm. “Solas healed what he could, but I’d left it a bit too long and he wanted to be sure there was no infection before he closed it up completely.”

Varric gave her a meaningful look that she returned with a guilty grimace, and Merrill made room for her on the bench at her side.

“So,” the mage began. “Does anyone want to tell me what in Mythal’s name happened last night? One moment we were in the Crossroads talking to those elves, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in bed feeling like I’d gone ten rounds with a cave bear.”

Athera winced guiltily and reached out to squeeze her hand.

“Ir abelas lethallan,” she said sincerely. “I think that might be my fault. I sort of… Well, I sort of dropped you to pull Solas out of an eluvian.”

Merrill’s mouth gaped open. She stared at her for a long moment, and then she started to laugh. The sound was infectious, and in the next moment, Varric and Athera were laughing as well, drawing a disapproving stare from Corff and the two other patrons on the other side of the room. 

“I’m sorry,” Merrill giggled eventually. “It’s just, I’ve been picturing all kinds of terrible things happening to me while I was unconscious, and instead, it was _you_!”

She chuckled again, and Athera felt a great rush of love for her friend, as the mage fixed her with a warm look.

“Go on then,” she said at last. “Tell me.”

Athera told them everything. Everything that she could, at least. In her version of the tale, the strange elves had attacked Merrill with a sleep spell and she and Solas had fought them off. Merrill was indignant when she realised that two anonymous strangers had been the cause of her sudden loss of consciousness, and Athera pushed her guilt away as she reminded herself what the alternative would be.

There wasn’t a scenario in which she could explain the Dread Wolf to Merrill, and certainly not one where her friends would accept him. 

It took her longer to explain what had happened to Solas; mostly because she kept seeing the fear in his eyes and hearing the way he’d begged for help, as he struggled to free himself from the nightmare. 

Varric and Merrill sat in grim silence while she told them of the creatures that had crawled out of the mirror, and she thanked every star that Varric knew little enough of the Fade, and Merrill was open enough to the mysteries of the Crossroads, that they accepted her description of the beasts that had attacked them as demons, and not the tattered remnants of Elvhenan.

When she was done, Varric leant back in his seat and let out a long breath, and Merrill’s face grew pinched in worry.

“Well,” the mage said at last. “For the record, I think you probably made the right choice in dropping me.”

And just like that, Athera smiled. It was easy, in that moment, to let herself feel the relief she hadn’t been able to access in the hours since she’d hauled Solas to safety. For just a second, she allowed her shoulders to slump. 

Merrill was safe. Solas was alive. She had escaped with only an injured arm, and the mirror had been blown into pieces.

These were things she could hang onto, even if everything else tried to sweep her away. 

“So,” Varric said. “Is Chuckles ok, do you think?”

She looked back at him across the table, uncertain of how to answer. She didn’t think the Dread Wolf had actually been _ok_ for a few thousand years. But no matter how often he fell apart, he always seemed to find a way to pull himself back together again in the hours and days that followed. 

With a shard of concern, she wondered how often Solas had fallen apart on his own before now, with no-one there to help hold him together.

“I think he’s fragile at the moment,” she said honestly. “But I think he will be ok.”

She turned to look at Merrill.

“I don’t think he’ll want to talk about the Crossroads for a little while though,” she warned her. “I know you’ll have a thousand and one questions you want to ask him, but maybe give him some time first?”

The young mage nodded, and Athera smiled at her again. She really was lucky to have the kind of friends she had, she thought, with another rush of affection.

“Now that’s out of the way,” Varric said, interrupting her thoughts. “Are we going to talk about how you managed to ignore your fucked up arm until this morning?”

She groaned and dropped her head into her hands dramatically, and the dwarf laughed.

“Seriously though, Starfire. Was it you who noticed in the end, or Solas?”

“You really know me too well,” she mumbled grudgingly.

“Solas, then,” Varric guessed. “We talked about this. You need to take better care of yourself, or-”

“I know, I know,” she interrupted quickly. “It was just, well, you saw him last night. It was a lot, is all. And believe me, Solas was as unhappy about it as you are when he fixed it this morning.”

“Huh,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, that’s something at least.”

Merrill drew her gaze with a tentative touch to her arm.

“Do you want us to give the two of you some space for a few days?” She asked hesitantly. “I know I can be a lot, but I have lots of work at the alienage to be getting on with, and it seems like Solas might need…. Well, you, more than anything else for a little while.”

She was blushing by the end of her sentence, but Athera appreciated the sentiment more than she could say.

“Ma serannas, lethallan,” she said softly. “I think he would like that.”

***

But later that night, when she laid down in her own bed and Solas still hadn’t returned, Athera admitted to herself that she had no real idea what it was he needed. She had expected him to stay away for most of the day – to gather himself back together again in private as he was so used to doing. But as the darkness drew in outside her window, she thought that she might have underestimated quite how badly his experience at the Crossroads had unsettled him.

The problem was, she had no frame of reference for what he was going through. All she could do was hold him while he cried, and that sort of comfort had a short half-life, no matter how necessary it was at the time. 

She had no great plan to offer him hope with. No long-term design that could provide him with relief. She couldn’t even promise him herself, when neither of them knew just where his path would lead him.

Even so, the thought of him alone in the dark Kirkwall streets made her heart clench and her throat grow tight. So, when a knock sounded at her door long past midnight, she called for him to come in without a second thought.

He stepped inside with an uncertain smile curling one side of his mouth, dark rings beneath his eyes and his skin unnaturally pale. He looked… Delicate, she thought. As though a single harsh word or an insult spoken in anger, might be all that was needed to shatter him.

“You’re late,” she rebuked him gently, and smiled so he would know she didn’t mean it.

He dipped his head in acknowledgement, still standing awkwardly on the threshold with his hands clasped in front of him.

“I am not very good at this,” he said quietly. “Whatever this is.”

He twisted his hands together and looked away, his forehead drawn into a frown.

“I do not know how to do this,” he tried again. “I am… I feel, unbalanced.”

She sat up more fully in the bed, the dim magelight she’d cast when he’d first knocked on the door, casting both of their faces in shadow.

“Do you want to be alone?” 

“No,” he answered at once. “But I do not know-”

“-how to do this,” she smiled. “You said that already.”

He huffed, clearly frustrated with himself and struggling to find the words to explain.

“I was hoping,” he began again. “That is, I wondered if you wouldn’t mind-”

He cut himself off again, and then let loose a stream of furious Elvhen and brought his hand to his face.

“If you expected me to understand a word of that, you’re going to have to translate,” she said lightly, and was rewarded with a wry smile and a shake of his head.

“I was comparing my inability to speak to that of an inebriated spirit of ignorance bound to the service of an imbecile,” he replied.

She laughed, her expression gentling, and some of the tension fell from his shoulders. He smiled.

“I was hoping that you might allow me to stay,” he said, more successfully this time. “But I suspected that we both might still need some time.”

He said the last as though it were a question, and she nodded.

“In that case…”

Shadows filled the room, and in the next moment, her charcoal grey wolf looked back at her in Solas’ place. He lowered himself to the ground with a soft whine, a question in his eyes, and she couldn’t help the smile that broke across her face.

“Foolish wolf,” she said, and shifted across the bed to make space.

That was apparently all the invitation he needed. The mattress dipped as the great wolf laid himself alongside her, and dropped his head onto her chest.

“By the Blight,” she huffed, half-laughing. “You are a needy wolf!”

But she brought her arms around his neck anyway, and laughed in earnest when he pressed his nose beneath her jaw and snuffled exaggeratedly, not even bothering to hide the fact that his tail was wagging against the mattress.

“Oh Fen’Harel is so very fluffy, you’d hardly believe it was true,” she began in a lilting voice. “From his ears to his scraggly tummy, all soft and adorable too-”

The wolf snorted and pushed his nose into her ear, his sides shaking with mirth.

“-They think he’s a trickster, but the greatest descriptor, I know to be totally right, is the fluff at his ruff and his cuddly snuff-ling, when he lies in bed late at night.”

In the next moment, she squealed in shock and delight as the wolf in question pushed his nose beneath her, and flipped her clean off the bed. She giggled helplessly and looked up, only to come face-to-nose with his head hanging over the edge of the bed, while a deep rumbling laugh shook him from his head to his paws, and made a blush rise to her face in pleasure.

“You are ridiculous,” he chuckled, watching her with a warm expression as she pushed herself into a sitting position and beamed at him.

“I did warn you I was going to write poems about how fluffy you were,” she said reasonably.

“That you did,” he acknowledged, a smile in his voice as she climbed back into bed and settled herself beside him.

He resumed his position against her chest, a contented rumble in his throat as he nuzzled his nose over her face and breathed in deeply at her neck.

“You are impossible,” he sighed. 

She wrapped her arms around him and smiled.

“Would you have me any other way?”

He pressed himself into her, his tail wagging again.

“No,” he decided softly. “And I would have no other in your place.”

She was still smiling when she fell asleep, listening to the Dread Wolf’s heart as it beat gently against her ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm, so this story hit 150 kudos with the last chapter?! Thank you to everyone who's left some and commented so far! I really didn't know if anyone was going to be into my slightly AU wolf story so I'm kind of amazed! Hope this chapter makes you smile too :D
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Ma fen - My wolf  
> Ma nuvenin - As you say  
> Ir abelas, lethallan - I'm sorry, cousin/kin  
> Ma serannas - Thank you


	29. Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric gives Athera some advice. It doesn't go well.

The next few days passed in a tense sort of lull, their experience at the Crossroads and their changing relationship taking time for both of them to process. In the face of so many monumental decisions still waiting to be made, they fell into a tentative routine. 

Solas spent his days away from the Hanged Man, wandering the city streets and sometimes, she thought, the countryside beyond the walls as well.

She spent her time playing cards with Varric, the dwarf very pointedly not asking her about Solas, while she regaled him with the finer details of Dalish life for the newest story he’d started when his most recent book had stalled. Twice, she slipped out into the streets to clear her head, but on both occasions she soon caught sight of the strange city elf, and retreated back to the bar before he could see her.

With everything that had happened, her mysterious shadow had slipped far down her list of concerns, but the fact that he was still hanging around made her nervous all the same. As did the knowledge that Fenris and Hawke still hadn’t returned from wherever the Champion had rushed them off to.

The continued absence of their friends went unremarked, but whenever the door to the Hanged Man opened, neither she nor Varric could stop themselves from turning towards the newcomers, their faces falling in silence when it wasn’t who they wanted to see. 

The combined weight of waiting; for Hawke to appear; for Fenris to return; for the city elf to reveal himself; for Solas to gather himself, and for their relationship to tip either one way or another, provoked in Athera an unfamiliar and overwhelming sense of inertia. 

This was the biding time; the moment between the jump and the fall. But with no idea of whether she would fall, fly, or simply crumble, she found that she could do nothing more than exist. 

It seemed as though Solas was trapped in a similar state of limbo, the only real decision he appeared to have reached being that he didn’t want to sleep alone. In the mornings, he would be up with the dawn before she’d woken, and only return again long after she went to bed. When he finally slipped inside, he would turn into the charcoal wolf without a word and leap into bed alongside her, nuzzling and whining as though the very act of staying away for so long had wounded him.

Every night, she wanted to tell him that they couldn’t keep going on like this; spending their nights curled up together as close as they could get, but never speaking about what would happen next. And every night, when he whined and trembled until she wrapped her arms around him and held him against her heart, the phrase got stuck in her throat, and she drifted to sleep with him warm and soft against her, while the shadow of their unspoken words lingered above her head.

Eventually, after a week had passed and they seemed no closer to actually saying anything to each other, Varric refused to play cards.

“Sorry, Starfire, but that’s your lot,” he said easily. “I’ve given you and Chuckles time enough. Now, you’ve got to actually talk to him.”

She blinked at the dwarf, her cheeks heating as she realised exactly how obvious their avoidance behaviour had been.

“Question,” she said lightly, to cover up her embarrassment. “How can you talk to someone who isn’t there?”

“Allow me to answer your question with another question,” Varric replied. “When has that ever stopped you before?”

She scowled, mostly because he was absolutely right. She’d stalked Fenris halfway across Kirkwall and out into the forests the first time he’d argued with Hawke, for Blight’s sake. By comparison, Solas would be much less difficult to find. 

“Allow me to answer your question with another question,” she returned, playing for time. “What if the person in question doesn’t really want to be found?”

Varric sighed indulgently.

“Fine, I’ll bite,” he drawled. “Allow me to answer your question with yet another question – which I think brings us out at questions to the power of four, by the way.”

She grinned, while he leant easily against a wall.

“Would someone who doesn’t want to be found, sleep in the same bed as the person they didn’t want to be found by every night?”

She winced guiltily.

“Ah, so you noticed that, did you?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I think we’re at questions answered with questions to the power of six now, and you still haven’t given me an answer,” she replied instead.

Varric sighed and shook his head, smiling at her warmly.

“You know the answer, Starfire. You’re just too scared to admit it.”

***

A few hours later, bound and gagged in a dingy basement somewhere in Darktown, Athera decided, unequivocally, that this was all Varric’s fault. 

_Go out and find Solas_ , he’d implied.

_Getting out of the Hanged Man will do you good_ , he’d implied.

_It’s up to you to make the first move_ , he’d implied.

Well, going out into the streets and searching for Solas had only ended up with her getting kidnapped. And she was furious about it. Especially because, despite the internal curses she directed at Varric and his frustratingly reasonable advice, it was entirely her own fault. 

On any other day, she’d have been more aware. She’d have scouted her surroundings and taken stock of her shadow. But with the weight of Solas’ absence pressing down on her, and the anxiety over the conversation they needed to have clouding her thoughts so thoroughly, she’d been careless.

It had taken absolutely no effort at all for the city elf to disable her, knocking her down with a potent spirit blast and fade-stepping to her side so quickly, she hadn’t even managed to scream before a rag was forced into her mouth, and a sleep spell hit her square in the face.

And then, of course, she’d woken in a basement.

It was _embarrassing_.

Although, now that she’d been tied to a supporting beam for some time, her arms drawn up behind her and the gag still in her mouth, fury and humiliation were beginning to give way to a sliver of fear. 

She had no idea what this elf wanted from her. Was it only her he wanted? Or was one of her friends a target, too? Her shoulders were starting to ache from the position he’d tied her in, and she could feel bruises throbbing down one side of her body where she’d dropped to the ground when he’d attacked.

Still, she’d been in worse positions before, she reminded herself. One thing her time as a slave in Tevinter had given her, was an uncanny ability to think rationally in terrifying situations; and a fairly high pain tolerance, as well.

She also had no doubt that her friends would come looking for her as soon as they realised she was missing. Unfortunately, they probably wouldn’t realise something was wrong until Solas returned to the bar without her and found her bed empty, and that wouldn’t be until some point past midnight.

She did the maths in her head, trying to work out how long it had been since she’d left the bar, and how long she’d been tied down here since. It was dark in the basement, but there was a small, shuttered window at the very top of the wall to her left, and the thin slivers of sunlight creeping through it suggested that it was probably not long after midday.

Twelve hours, then, give or take, before Solas would find her gone. And after that? How long would it take for them to follow her trail? Another few hours, at least, she thought. A day, maybe, depending on how careful her kidnapper had been.

She winced internally. The Dread Wolf was not going to take her abduction well. And twenty-four hours was a long time to be at the mercy of whoever had taken her hostage. 

No sooner had the thought occurred to her, than she heard movement above her head. She tensed, listening as footsteps crossed the floor, and the door at the opposite end of the room began to open. Athera made a split-second decision, and slumped forward again, as though still asleep.

The added weight made the ache in her shoulders grow, but at this point, playing for time was her best option. The longer she could draw out their efforts to rouse her, the fewer hours they would have left for whatever it was they were actually intending to do. She tried very hard not to think about what that might be.

Her gaoler shut the door with a soft click, and she heard him make his way down the rickety wooden stairs, not bothering to hide his approach. There was the sound of a table being moved, and then the scrape of a chair.

With her head bowed low and her hair tumbling over her face, she risked opening her eyes slightly, and caught sight of a pair of feet bound in footwraps, as the elf took a seat in front of her.

“There’s no point in pretending you’re asleep,” a low voice said calmly. “I timed the sleep spell perfectly, and a mortal cannot deceive me otherwise. No matter how convincing your performance.”

She tensed.

_Mortal_?

She opened her eyes. 

The city elf looked back at her mildly as he removed the rag from her mouth, dark hair falling in thick braids around his face, sharp green eyes framed by long eyelashes, and a grudging smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. 

Up close, it was easy to see that he wasn’t like other city elves. His back was straight, and he’d stretched one leg out over the other in a relaxed manner she resented. Like Solas, he was broader than a modern elf, with strong shoulders, and his grey robe was plain but finely made.

“You’re one of the ancients,” she answered him at last. 

“A simple conclusion to reach,” he nodded.

She shifted slightly against her bonds, and her gaze drifted to the table at his side, where an array of knives and other disturbing looking implements were arranged neatly in a row, and glinting in the yellow glow of his magelight. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly going dry.

“And what does one of the ancients want with me?”

“ _One_ of the ancients?” He asked, amused. “I believe I am the second elf from Arlathan you have encountered recently, da’len.”

She felt herself pale. So, this was about the Dread Wolf after all. She really should have considered that possibility earlier.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” she lied smoothly. “I think I’d have noticed if I’d met another ancient.”

Disconcertingly, he chuckled, his eyes sparking.

“You are clever, da’len. I will give you that.”

He leant closer, until his face was only inches from hers, his expression considering.

“I had wondered what it was that drew the Dread Wolf to you, but I see now that there’s no fear in your eyes.”

He cocked his head, studying her as though she were a puzzle. She had seen a similar look on Solas’ face more than once, and it disturbed her to see it on this new elf instead.

“In fact, you have given me the slip on more than one occasion, although you perhaps haven’t realised it yet.”

“I recall only one occasion,” she told him honestly. “In the market.”

He smiled.

It wasn’t an unfriendly smile; or a mad one. The fact that he appeared to be perfectly pleasant, whilst surrounded by objects of torture, unsettled her far more than if he’d been raving. Whatever this was, it was a considered act of violence, and she knew from experience that they were the most dangerous kind.

“In fact, I have been following you since the Dalish clan,” he informed her. “I would have taken you then, but I confess that I was curious. I have never known Fen’Harel to look at someone the way he looks at you.”

He leant back again, his brow furrowed thoughtfully.

“For a time, I thought he was merely using you. He was injured, and weak, and far from where he’d intended to be. It would have made sense, for him to have courted your favour until he was strong enough to leave.”

She forced herself to meet his gaze evenly, even as her heart pounded. These were the thoughts that had kept her up for so many nights the last two months, and to hear them spoken about so casually by someone else, was undeniably painful.

Suddenly, the ancient elf let out a sharp laugh, and the sound sent a spike of adrenaline down her spine.

“Imagine my surprise, then,” he said, chuckling lightly. “When he not only followed you here, but failed to make contact with any of his agents in the city when he arrived!”

He was smiling in earnest at her now, bemusement and respect in his gaze.

“Thousands of years I have known the rebel wolf, and have hardly been able to sway him, and then in two short months, a quickling had him following her around like a tamed puppy. Truly, it has been a fascinating spectacle to watch.”

“I’m glad I’ve been able to entertain you so,” she said dryly.

He chuckled again, reclining in his chair as an idle finger slid over the hilt of one of his knives. She followed the movement with her eyes, a dull fear growing in the back of her mind.

“Truly, you have,” he said, and then his face drew into a scowl and his eyes darkened. 

The change in him was so sudden, that she almost flinched backwards. With a great force of will, she maintained her composure.

“Any woman that could tame the Dread Wolf, however, is not one I should count as a friend.”

She licked her lips and drew a steadying breath in.

“And yet you’ve known him for thousands of years,” she said softly. “Were you enemies all that time?”

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, and then his cruel expression was replaced by a twisted sort of gentleness that she found even more unsettling.

“It is only fair, I suppose, that you should understand the reason for your pain,” he said mildly, picking up a thin knife from the table. “You must be assured, that my quarrel is not truly with you.”

“You’ll forgive me if I find that less than comforting,” she managed to croak, her gaze following the path of the weapon with a growing sense of dread.

“Ir abelas,” he returned. 

The worst part was, she thought that he meant it.

“Where to begin, I wonder?” He mused, and climbed gracefully to his feet, the dagger held loosely in his hand. “I presume Fen’Harel has informed you of what became of Elvhenan, and how it became that way?”

“He said the Evanuris grew mad with power, and that he created the veil to lock them away.”

The elf inclined his head, pacing languorously in front of her.

“That is a simple retelling, but in essence, true,” he agreed. “In fact, I was there when the Fade was pushed back. I protected him while he cast his great spell.”

Her interest flickered into life then, despite her predicament.

“You protected him?” She asked. “From who?”

“From those who would have stopped him,” he said simply.

Her mind ticked over this new information, and she observed the elf cautiously.

“If you supported his plan then,” she surmised. “Then it’s something more recent that has turned you into his enemy.”

He nodded, elegant hands still toying with the knife.

“I believed in him,” he said bitterly. “I _worshipped him_. I believed he was the best of us.”

She swallowed.

“What happened?” She whispered.

He came to a stop in front of her, his eyes blazing.

“Felassan.”

Before she could even register the movement, his arm shot out, and swiped along her chest in two quick strikes. For a long second, nothing seemed to happen, and then a burning pain exploded across her collarbone as the slash from the dagger peeled back her skin.

She gasped, her vision tunnelling and a ringing in her ears, and then a mild shock of electricity brought her back to the present and stopped her fall into unconsciousness. 

“Don’t do that,” the elf chastised. “I need you awake for this.”

She breathed deeply, attempting to calm her racing heart as she felt blood running down her skin and collecting in her breastband. For the first time, a shard of panic took hold of her as she stared into the grim face of her attacker. He was calm. Regretful. But unmoved by her distress. Whatever Fen’Harel had done to wound this man, he had wounded him deeply, and now he was dangerous.

“Felassan was his agent,” she panted, both playing for time and trying to understand. “The one who betrayed him.”

“Felassan _loved_ him,” the elf snarled. “Like a brother, for all the good it did him. The Dread Wolf would have died if not for him!”

His voice held an edge of hysteria, and Athera forced herself to hold his gaze.

“Explain it to me, then,” she encouraged him. “Tell me why a man who loved him like a brother would betray the Dread Wolf to Briala.” 

“Because he believed in her,” he whispered. “He believed this world was worth saving. He wanted to give her a chance to prove that it could be something more than it is.”

Whatever she had expected him to say, it wasn’t that. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened, as a stone of horror settled in her stomach.

“Felassan wanted to save this world,” she said hollowly.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice strained. “My love. My _heart_. He always saw the best in people. He wanted Fen’Harel to wait, to give the quicklings…” He swallowed and met her gaze, his eyes brimming with sorrow. “To give you all a chance to rebuild what was lost. And Fen’Harel _destroyed_ him for it.”

Athera let her eyes slide closed, her chest tightening with grief. 

So, this was the great betrayal the Dread Wolf had corrected in the Crossroads. He had been asked to save this world before, by someone he had trusted. Someone who had loved him for thousands of years. 

And he had refused him.

She couldn’t help the stricken sob that fought its way from her mouth. If he could destroy Felassan, his brother in arms, for wanting to save the world, then he could destroy her too. What hope did she have now of staying his hand?

She drew in a ragged breath, and then another, as tears fell down her cheeks and the hopeless reality of her care for the wolf descended over her like a shroud.

When she next looked up again, the elf was watching her with a strange sort of compassion in his eyes, the dagger, red with her blood, still held at his side. 

“How strange,” he murmured, studying her again. “I attacked you. Bound you. Sliced you with a knife, and you did not react.”

He took a step towards her.

“And yet, hearing me speak of Felassan’s destruction, you weep as though I have torn out your heart.”

She looked away, her face burning and tears still dripping down her cheeks.

“Why?”

He retook his seat, watching her with that same puzzled expression Solas so often wore, when she did something he didn’t expect. It made her want to scream.

“Ir abelas, lethallin,” she whispered instead. “He should not have destroyed your heart.”

For an instant, the elf’s face crumpled with pain, and he looked sharply away from her and gripped the dagger tightly in his fist. She watched him with a resigned sort of sympathy, aware, all of a sudden, that he was not a monster, and equally aware that he would behave monstrously anyway. It was the same battle Solas faced, she realised; for twists of fate and circumstance to have conspired, and drive a good man into desperate acts of destruction. 

She suspected the irony was not lost on her kidnapper.

“You are kind to say so,” the elf replied quietly. “I do not relish this.”

“You want to hurt him,” she realised all of a sudden. “The way he hurt you.”

He met her gaze with a resigned weariness.

“I had thought to attack him while he was weakened,” he confided. “But by the time I discovered the place he had spirited himself away to, he was already in your care.”

An empty smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“I waited, hoping you would leave, and then as time went on, I saw an even better opportunity.”

He sighed, watching her sadly.

“The Dread Wolf cares for you, da’len,” he murmured. “I believe he cares for you more than he’s cared for anyone since Mythal fell to her children’s madness.”

She repressed a shudder as he got back to his feet, the dagger held tightly in his fist.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said hoarsely. “I thought I could stop him. He said…”

She broke off, shaking her head, hopelessness sitting heavy in her heart. The elf’s eyes sharpened and he held the knife to her neck.

“What did he say?” He asked dangerously.

She swallowed, feeling the sharp metal bite into the skin at her throat.

“He said he needed to see more of this world,” she whispered. “And he promised me a manifesto for preserving life if he ever decided to tear down the veil.”

She laughed without humour, wincing as the knife cut into her skin and she suddenly realised just how desperately naïve she’d been. Two months of kindness could not undo thousands of years of duty. She was a fool to ever have believed it could.

But the elf was looking at her with a strange expression on his face, and with a long breath through his mouth, he removed the knife from her throat and stepped away.

“Could it be?” He breathed, more to himself than to her. “Could you be the answer after all?”

She followed him with her eyes as he began to pace, numb to the pain in her chest and the throbbing ache in her shoulders, as she struggled to process everything she’d been told. After long minutes, he stopped and turned to face her, a tentative hope in his eyes.

“I had wanted to hurt him,” he said. “The way he had hurt me. The destruction of the person he had come to care for, in return for the destruction of my heart.”

His jaw tightened, and he hesitated.

“But the Dread Wolf does not make idle promises. His most potent weapon has always been words. If he promised you that he would seek to preserve life, then it is likely he intends to do so.”

“You think he was telling me the truth?” Athera asked, soft amazement in her voice. “Even after Felassan?”

The elf winced at the name of his beloved, but he lowered the knife to his side.

“Perhaps, especially after Felassan,” he mused quietly. “To be opposed by his oldest friend, and then challenged by the quickling who saved him… Maybe, after everything, he is finally beginning to see.”

He frowned, and stepped closer to her again.

“I wanted to destroy him by destroying you,” he told her bluntly. “But Felassan wanted to see this world saved. It was his last true wish. He failed to convince the Dread Wolf to listen, but perhaps you are the answer after all.”

She watched, thoughts racing, as he slumped back down into the chair, a lost expression in his eyes.

“Could it be that in destroying you, I would destroy any hope that Felassan’s wish would be made a reality?”

“I think you give me too much credit,” she said, before she’d thought better of it.

The elf barked out a shocked laugh, the tension in his posture relaxing as he observed her with renewed interest for a long moment.

“Felassan would have liked you,” he said warmly. 

His gaze dropped down to the bloodied knife in his hands. 

“I do not relish this,” he repeated to himself.

Athera stayed quiet as he warred with himself in silence, knowing that his next decision would mean either her deliverance or her death. Minutes ticked by, the only sounds their quiet breathing, and the steady drip of her blood onto the stone beneath her. 

“A small hope, then,” he whispered, and looked up to meet her eyes. “Felassan would have wanted you saved, if it meant the world may yet be protected. I will give you this chance to alter the Dread Wolf’s course.”

She swallowed.

“I think you-”

“-give you too much credit,” he finished for her. “You said.”

Now that he wasn’t planning her imminent torture and death, a relieved smile had spread across his face, and he reclined languidly in the chair. The change in him was startling.

“So, that’s it?” She asked, hardly daring to believe her luck. “You’re just going to let me go?”

He hesitated, and then shook his head.

“No, he said regretfully. “I think it best if the Dread Wolf fears for your safety. His desire to protect you may be the only thing that stands between this world and destruction.”

“No pressure then,” Athera said sarcastically, earning her another surprised chuckle from her kidnapper.

“A great deal, I would imagine,” he said. “But perhaps this will end up serving our aim anyway. If he fears you have come to harm, it may accelerate his feelings for you, and thereby increase his desire to find a different path.”

“That sounds like emotional manipulation,” she said distastefully. “Letting him believe I’m in danger.”

“Until very recently, you _were_ in danger,” the elf reminded her. “The blood on the ground is your own.”

She couldn’t really argue with that; especially because the knife wounds were really beginning to hurt, now that she wasn’t so focused on her approaching death.

“I will leave you here as you are,” the elf decided. “I had planned for Fen’Harel to find your body within the next day or two, anyway. The trail will not be too difficult for him to find.”

Athera watched, mildly shell-shocked, as he cleared away his collection of torture materials and raised his hood back over his head.

“He must know nothing of this,” he warned her. “You must convince him some other person is responsible for your injury.”

She nodded numbly, a sudden exhaustion taking root in her veins.

“I hope we meet again, Athera,” he said, as he stepped towards the stairs. “Under better circumstances.”

She sagged against her bonds as he left, the situation far too surreal for her to feel anything other than bone-deep relief.

“Wait,” she called, as he reached the door. “What is your name?”

With a flick of his hand, he extinguished the magelight, and plunged the room into darkness. 

“Revas,” he said, as he abandoned her to the Dread Wolf’s hunt. “My name is Revas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been DYING to reveal the city elf to you for AGES. 
> 
> Ta-dah! Here he is! 
> 
> PS: Your comments have been giving me life. Seriously. Thank you!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry  
> Revas - Freedom


	30. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dread Wolf's hunt is on

Time passed slowly in the dark. She watched the shuttered window as the sun moved across the sky, and pain began to take root deep in her body. 

Revas had left her standing, her arms locked behind her back by a rope that hung from the ceiling. It was a masterful torture device on its own, the angle not allowing her the opportunity to sit or lean too far over, without agony burning through her shoulders and straining along her neck.

She was still bleeding, although she was grateful to realise that what had started out as a steady torrent, was beginning to slow to a trickle. She should clot before bleeding out, at least. 

Still, the pool of blood around her feet wasn’t insignificant, and she was light-headed and desperately drowsy by the time dusk began to fall beyond the window. She twisted her hands together irritably, trying to inject some adrenaline into her veins so she would stop swaying forward and pulling on her tormented joints.

It didn’t last for long.

When night fell, she tried to track the sounds outside for any clue of the time. Revas might have decided to spare her, but she suspected that neither of them knew how bad her injuries were when he’d left, and she was starting to become seriously concerned that her friends wouldn’t find her in time. 

She had last drank water early that morning, and now, over twelve hours later and with a significant loss of blood, she was feeling every moment of her dehydration.

She knew from her time in Tevinter that it took around three days for someone to die from lack of water, but that was accelerated if blood loss was severe. She estimated she had around twelve to sixteen hours left before she was seriously in danger of losing her life, whether Revas intended it or not.

The thought that if she did die here, it would be because of nothing more than the foolish mistake of a grief-stricken ancient, made her furious in ways she couldn’t articulate.

As the night dragged on, her thoughts turned more and more towards what Revas had told her, and to her quiet shame, she found herself crying softly in the dark. She had known that there were thousands of deaths at Solas’ hand, but somehow, the murder of his closest friend tore at her heart with terrible force.

Felassan, according to Revas, had been a good man. Kind and open-minded enough, at least, to see the value in the modern elves before his commander had even bothered to look. She wondered grimly to herself whether Solas had thought of Felassan as he’d come to know Athera and her friends.

Did he regret what he’d done to him? Were his tears for his brother in arms as well? Or had he simply become so used to sacrificing everything for his cause, that Felassan was simply one more death among many that stained his hands so red?

It shamed her, alone in the dark, to know that she had already forgiven him for it.

When she heard the Chantry bells toll the midnight hour, she drew in a deep breath and attempted to bring herself back to some kind of calm. Soon, Solas would realise she was gone. He would probably ask Varric where she was, at which point the dwarf would tell the Dread Wolf he had thought she was with him.

It wouldn’t take the rogue long to pin her disappearance on the mysterious city elf, and then…

She sighed heavily, pain coiling like a virus through her muscles. 

What would happen then?

They would go to Merrill first, she decided, wondering if she’d lost her nerve in seeking out Solas, and sought the company of the mage instead. At that point, they would begin to search in earnest.

Her arms throbbed behind her neck, and she listed to the side and bit back a cry of pain. Her legs were starting to shake.

How long? She wondered. Revas had said there was a trail to follow, but he had also said _a day or two_. She wasn’t certain she had a day or two left to wait. Already, she could feel exhaustion sitting heavy behind her eyes. Her stomach growled, empty and weakened, while her mouth was dry and her wounds were still bleeding.

She desperately wanted to sleep, but any small movement put terrible pressure on her shoulders, and the uncomfortable weight was already sending shocks of pain through her nerves. She had been worried that she wouldn’t be able to sell the whole _torture victim_ thing to the Dread Wolf, since Revas had decided in the end not to torture her – much, at least.

Now, she realised that she was actually enduring a slow sort of torture regardless, and she wasn’t entirely certain she could hold out against it.

She breathed in deeply, and settled back against the beam to wait. They would come for her. She knew they would. 

She just hoped it would be soon.

***

Athera watched the dawn rise beyond the window with a listless sort of panic, clouded by agony. Nearly a whole day and night standing bound to the ceiling with her arms locked behind her, and every inch of her was screaming in pain. Her arms quaked in their bonds. Her legs shook with distant tremors.

Every few minutes, she felt her eyes slip closed as her exhausted body forced her towards sleep, only to jerk awake suddenly with lightning running through her arms and down to the base of her spine, when she stumbled and pulled at her bindings.

As the city woke up again, she found herself whimpering, desperate to sit, or sleep, or even die, if that meant that the pain would stop. In the midst of her torment, she thought of her friends. Were they worried for her? Were they still out there, looking frantically for whoever had taken her?

Did they know she didn’t have much time left?

She let out a sob, alone in the dark. 

She wanted Solas. 

As soon as she’d thought it to herself, she began to cry in earnest, her head spinning with dehydration and blood loss, and her whole body screaming in pain. 

She wanted her wolf. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anything.

Why wasn’t he here?

***

It was nearly midday again by the time she heard movement on the street outside. She roused herself from where she’d been listing, her wrists bloodied and torn by the rope, and her mind fogged with pain. 

There were voices, speaking softly near the window, but she couldn’t hear them well enough to make out what was being said. A few moments later, she heard a crash as a door upstairs shattered, and a wave of relief overwhelmed her.

They were here. They’d found her. 

Her wolf was coming. 

Footsteps sounded above her head, as her would-be rescuers paced through the house. Athera opened her mouth to call to them, but only succeeded in rasping weakly, and then doubled over in a coughing fit, drawing great licks of flame through her back that made tears tumble down her face.

 _Please_ , she begged silently. _Please find me._

There was a moment in which silence fell, and she thought with a spike of hysteria that they’d left without discovering the basement. But then suddenly, the door at the top of the stairs blew in and shattered under the force of a spirit blast, and bright light flooded the room and made her screw up her eyes.

There was a moment in which nothing happened, and then:

“ _Athera_!” 

Solas fade-stepped straight from the top of the stairs and sliced through the ropes that bound her in one swift movement. She fell forward with an agonised cry, pins and needles shooting down her arms and her legs giving out at once.

He caught her, and she smelt woodsmoke, and parchment, and _him_ , as he lowered her gently to the floor and cradled her in his arms, his magic already seeking out her injuries and healing them as she fell.

“Athera,” he murmured, again and again, his eyes wild with fear and his fingertips brushing over her face, her arms, her waist, as though needing to touch all of her at once.

She had wanted to be strong for him. That was how it was meant to be. But with her head spinning and hurt throbbing through her body, and his arms so warm around her, she found, instead, that she fell apart.

A high, rasping wail rose from her throat without her conscious permission, and it only grew when she tried to cling onto him and discovered that her arms wouldn’t obey her command to move. She wanted her wolf, and she couldn’t even hold him.

Pushed to the very edge by exhaustion and pain, she found herself sobbing helplessly, dimly aware of Merrill and Varric hovering on the periphery of her vision, as the Dread Wolf took her in his arms and held her against his chest. One arm supported her back, and he lifted her carefully and tucked her beneath his chin, nuzzling her with his cheek as he carried her from the building with hurried steps.

“Athera, Athera, Athera,” he mumbled into her hair. “It’s alright, I have you. You’re safe. I’m here.”

She pushed her face into his neck, breathing him in, and stifling a wave of inappropriate laughter as she realised that she was sniffing him the way he sniffed her when he was a wolf. He was right, she decided distantly, as Solas and her two bodyguards hurried her through the streets. It was comforting to have his scent envelop her, and know that she was safe.

***

She must have fallen asleep, because at some point, she woke in her bed, a dull pain throbbing through her muscles and her head pounding. She groaned, and instantly, there was a gentle hand cradling her face, and the mattress dipped as someone shifted towards her.

“Here, drink this,” Solas said softly. “It will help.”

A glass was held to her lips, and she drank obediently, gulping great mouthfuls of cold water and nearly choking in her eagerness to slake her thirst. With some effort, she opened her eyes as the glass was pulled away, coming face-to-face with the painfully worried expression of her wolf as he sat next to her on the bed.

“I’ve got to tell you,” she croaked, her throat rasping like sandpaper. “I’ve had better days.”

A storm of emotions flickered across his face, too quickly for her to make sense of, and then his face crumpled and he laughed, tears tumbling from his eyes as he pulled her towards him and crushed her to his chest.

She winced as she forced her stiff arms to hold him in return, and his shoulders shook with a desperate kind of laughter that sounded very much as though he was sobbing. 

When it had passed, he lifted her gently so he could sit back against the headboard with her cradled on his lap. She experienced a potent flash of embarrassment as she realised that he was holding her like a child, but then the smell of the basement, and her fear in the dark, came back to her with a sudden spike of panic, and she relented and let her head fall onto his shoulder, soothed by his fingers running through her hair.

“Athera,” he murmured, after they’d sat for long minutes in silence. “I thought I’d lost you.”

With some difficulty, she lifted her head to look at him, and found his eyes shining down at her with desperate vulnerability.

She fought the natural urge to dismiss her own pain – Varric had been trying to break her of the habit for years – and steeled herself to offer him honesty instead.

Wincing, she cupped his face with her hand and ran her thumb softly over his lips, drinking in the sight of him much as he seemed to be doing with her.

“For a little while there,” she confessed. “So did I.”

His face fell in a pained grimace, and he bowed his head to hers and kissed her, his lips demanding, and hesitant, and sweet.

She let out a soft sigh against him, deepening the kiss, and he responded with all of the force of a hurricane. A low moan rose in his throat, his fingers tangled in her hair, tugging deliciously at her scalp, and his tongue sought hers while his other hand crushed her against him. 

Sparks leapt along her nerves, and she let him sweep her away in his need and locked her arms around his neck, keeping him bent to her and pushing herself into his chest.

When they finally broke apart, his lips were swollen and his eyes were bright, a pink blush sitting high in his cheeks as he stared down at her with something that looked a little like awe.

Her heart stuttered. 

He was beautiful.

With a soft sigh, he brushed his lips to her forehead, and tucked her back under his chin, his arms wrapping around her possessively as he trailed his fingers over her back, as though confirming she was real.

“What happened?” He asked into her hair at last. “Who did this to you?”

She swallowed, curling herself more deeply into his chest and nuzzling at his neck. She didn’t want to lie to him, but she knew that she had to.

“The city elf was working with the Templars,” she said. “They’d taken one of his friends hostage.”

She felt Solas stiffen beneath her, and she pressed a soft kiss to his neck and smiled when his pulse stuttered beneath her lips.

“They were looking for Hawke,” she lied quietly. “But the elf hadn’t signed up for me to be tortured.”

She forced a sigh, hating how easily the lies fell from her mouth.

“He refused to help them. They fought, and it became clear soon after that I didn’t know anything. So they left.” 

She breathed in at his neck, sucking a soft mark into his skin that made him tense beneath her, and release a quiet gasp that she felt in the pit of her stomach.

“I think they were hoping I would die there,” she whispered. 

All of a sudden, Solas’ grip on her became bruising, and he pressed his face into her hair and let out an anguished sound that made her heart clench.

“My Athera,” he breathed. “My star. Do not ever say that to me again.”

She tried to lift her head to look at him, but he held her fast, his breaths laboured and his heart pounding against her.

“I could not lose you,” he whispered. “Not now. I will not give you up for anything.”

She kissed his neck again, and let her eyes drift closed.

“Ma fen,” she murmured. 

As she slipped into sleep, safe in the circle of his arms, she could have sworn she heard him whisper:

_Mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands up: who thinks Solas is going to deal with this badly?!


	31. Rogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric's perspective on Athera's kidnap

Varric Tethras considered himself to be pretty immune to surprises these days. He also considered himself to be a fairly decent judge of character, which was why he’d put up with Chuckles when Athera had first adopted him into their group.

Sure, the mysterious elf was a weird ass apostate, but Varric had known Merrill for long enough to know that this didn’t necessarily mean he was a bad person. He was also aloof, and prickly, and far, far too interested in his own opinion, as far as the dwarf was concerned.

He’d spent too long alone to bother much with social niceties, and the only people he seemed to really have clicked with were Athera and Merrill; and he only clicked with Merrill because she had a brain the size of a small planet, and thought that he was just as amazing as he clearly considered himself to be. 

And yet, Varric couldn’t help but like the man, for one very simple reason. Despite his grating social manner and the quiet condescension he could sometimes project – often without meaning to, the rogue thought – he was a calm and steadying influence on the rest of the group. And he quite plainly adored Athera.

Varric had watched them since they’d arrived together, and if anyone else had bothered to do the same, they’d have seen how hopelessly besotted the prickly son-of-a-bitch was with her, too. 

When she walked into a room, his eyes lit up as though he were staring at the sun. The usual considered frown that pulled between his eyebrows melted away, and a small half-smile settled on his lips. In fact, the only time Varric had ever seen him truly smile, was when he was watching Athera.

Unfortunately, the calm and steady manner that Varric liked in him so much, also seemed to be the main thing that was stopping them from having a damn conversation about the fact they clearly cared for each other.

Still, if there was one thing the dwarf could count on Solas to be, it was reserved. Calm. Controlled. 

Which was why, when the weird ass apostate burst into his room long past midnight, demanding to know where Athera was, he got something of a shock.

“Hold up there, Chuckles,” he’d yawned, sitting up drowsily in bed. “Isn’t she with you?”

Solas clenched his hands into fists, his jaw set rigidly as though he were holding back a scream.

“If she were with me, do you really think that I would be here with you?” He bit out, and sleepily, Varric had to concede that he had a point.

“She went to find you this morning, to have a talk, I think.”

Varric had written the phrase _the blood drained from their face_ any number of times in his books. This was the first time he’d ever truly seen it in action. Solas paled as though his skin had never known the sun, and it was this, more than anything else, that finally snapped Varric fully into consciousness.

“Let me guess, she never got to you?” 

Solas shook his head stiffly, agitation pouring off him in waves, and Varric swore and raised a hand to his head.

“Well, shit. She said that elf was following her.”

The apostate’s eyes snapped to his, and Varric experienced his very first observation of what could only be called: controlled hysteria. Solas swallowed convulsively; once, twice, three times. His hands clenched and unclenched themselves at his side, and Varric got the impression that he was a single second away from either bolting out of the door, or screaming.

“Explain,” he choked out instead.

So Varric did.

It had taken every ounce of the rogue’s considerable powers of persuasion, and the over-use of his most soothing of soothing voices, to convince Chuckles to visit Merrill first, before falling to pieces. It was therefore his own fault that he’d practically had to run through Kirkwall’s streets to keep up with the apostate’s feverish pace, as he tore through the city to the alienage.

Retrospectively, he still didn’t know how they’d prevented Solas from accidentally setting Merrill’s house on fire, when he’d realised that Athera wasn’t there either. Somehow, though, he’d got himself under control. And if sweat had beaded on his forehead, and he’d looked, for a moment, like a man whose whole world had ended, then Varric suspected that only he had noticed.

He was better once they’d started to hunt. 

In this, at least, Solas was meticulous. He conscripted Merrill to help him isolate Athera’s magical signature – a thing that Varric hadn’t even known existed. They tracked the lingering power across the city, but every time they got close to Darktown, the lyrium underground began to scramble the signal, and Merrill swore as they lost it again.

Solas’ tightly-held calm lasted until dawn, when their magic rebounded once more against the lyrium, and Merrill was foolish enough to ask out-loud:

“What if we don’t find her in time?”

Varric had only just managed to get out a long-suffering _Daisy_ , before Solas slipped to the ground as though the muscles in his legs had simply been spirited away. He turned, watching in horrified fascination, as the meticulous, reserved, level-headed apostate, lowered his head into his hands and began to tremble.

He didn’t make a sound. Afterwards, Varric would decide that this was what had most disturbed him. He simply knelt there, in the dirt at the junction of Darktown and the docks, his skin as white as driven snow, and his whole body shaking like a leaf caught in the breeze.

Varric had always considered himself to be good with people. This was the first time he hadn’t had a clue what to say.

For once, Merrill did. 

She stepped up to Solas and knelt beside him without a second thought, pulling his hands forcibly from his face and fixing him with a glare made of steel.

“No,” she said firmly. “You don’t get to fall apart right now.”

Solas looked as though he was a single second away from shattering.

“We might not find her,” Merrill said, and Varric watched as terror gathered behind Solas’ eyes.

“Daisy-” he started to warn, but she held up her hand to cut him off, her gaze still fixed on Solas.

“We might not find her,” she repeated. “But whether we do or not, do you really want to remember that you gave up before it was too late? Athera needs you. Don’t you _dare_ let her down like this.”

The moment stretched like a tightrope, and then Solas released a shuddering breath through his mouth, and gathered himself back together again. 

It was just as well, because Varric didn’t know what they’d have done if he hadn’t been with them when they’d found her.

As soon as they’d managed to isolate the signal, Solas was like a man possessed. He raced through Darktown, along lanes and over bridges, as though he could see through rock and stone to wherever it was Athera was being held. Varric had never been more grateful for someone in his life, than when he’d blasted through the doors to the dilapidated house with the most potent spirit blast he’d ever seen.

“ _Athera_!”

The dwarf was behind him when they entered the basement, so he never saw his friend hanging from the ceiling. What he did see, was what came next.

He saw his friend, bloodied and weeping. One of the strongest women he’d ever known, reduced to helpless sobs and soaked in her own still-flowing blood. And he’d watched as the prickly apostate, this stranger to them all, drew her into his arms as though she were the most precious thing in the whole damn world.

He watched as she let him care for her.

He had never known Athera to let anyone care for her. Yet she leant into him as though she belonged there.

And he cradled her like she was made of glass. His hands trembled. His lips moved soundlessly. He lifted her from the ground and buried his face in her hair.

“Athera, Athera, Athera.”

It sounded like reverence. It sounded like salvation.

There was no question in Varric’s mind that they were both exactly where they needed to be.

He followed them back to the bar, Merrill at his side, as Solas rushed them towards home.

“Master Tethras,” he called over his shoulder, as they made their way upstairs. “We will need the use of your bath.”

Varric filled the tub while Merrill and Solas peeled off Athera’s clothes. She was sleeping soundly, and the dwarf suspected a minor sleep spell might be to blame. Still, when he saw the extent of her injuries, he could do nothing but thank Solas for casting it.

The knife wounds were livid and angry, but it was the swelling in her shoulders that made him feel sick. The joints were red and distended, and the tender, swollen skin trickled down along her shoulder blades, and almost seemed to hum with tension, even in sleep.

Solas reached out to run his fingers over the injury, his eyes darkening with terrifying fury, and for a moment, Varric experienced a primal flash of fear.

“I will destroy whoever did this,” the apostate vowed softly.

Varric believed him.

They lowered her into the bath in her undergarments, and the dwarf watched with a smirk of amusement, as Solas blushed to the tips of his ears and turned away.

“Merrill,” he rasped quietly. “You should be the one to tend to her.”

Well, he thought, that answered the question of whether or not they were having sex yet. 

But even with Merrill caring so gently for her, Solas couldn’t seem to move away. He knelt by the side of the bath, his eyes fixed on her face and one hand gripping the edge of the tub, as though he were only a second away from snatching her back from the mage’s hands and cradling her in his arms. 

When Merrill lifted her out, and Solas had to turn his back while she dressed her, Varric thought the apostate might actually leap out of his skin, so great was his tension at having her out of his sight. It was with a relieved sigh and a shudder of his shoulders, that he finally took Athera from Merrill’s arms and held her in his own again.

Without a word, he carried her to her room and laid her out on the bed, and Varric and Merrill lingered in the doorway as he began to rub elfroot salve into her wounds and send pulses of healing magic through her shoulders.

“It would go quicker with the two of us working,” Merrill said.

But the instant she stepped forward and reached for Athera, Solas flinched and curled himself over her body with a sound that was almost a snarl, the muscles in his back trembling. For a moment, an undeniably fierce expression clouded his face, and Merrill recoiled at once.

Varric had once seen an injured wolf turn to defend her cubs from Hawke’s approach, and in that moment, Solas reminded him of nothing so much as that mother, defending what was his instinctually.

As quickly as the expression came, however, it was gone again, and a look of confusion and apology took its place.

“Ir abelas, lethallan,” he said sincerely, his brow furrowed. “I don’t know why I did that.”

He looked hopelessly lost, baffled by his own response, but Varric knew well why it had happened. The man was a teeming bundle of nervous energy, his entire soul, it seemed, bent to the task of protecting the woman on the bed. He had reacted as an animal might react, when faced with a perceived threat. 

Clearly, he thought wryly, the apostate had issues, but his care for Athera wasn’t one of them. Which was why Varric took Merrill gently by the arm, and motioned for her to leave. He suspected that there was no-one in the world Starfire would be safer with in that moment, than the man she’d adopted in the woods.

At the door, he turned back for a moment, just in time to see Solas tuck the blankets around Athera, and climb into bed next to her. He stared down into her face with a look of utter devotion, his fingers tracing the lines of her vallaslin, before he curled up and rested his head on her chest. His hand fell to rest over her heart, and he breathed her name once before releasing a soft sigh, and closing his eyes.

Yes, Varric thought, as he closed the door quietly. 

Athera was safe, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I couldn't resist giving everyone a Varric-eye-view of what happened in the hours that Athera was trapped in the basement!


	32. Gift

Her recovery was slow, in the sense that it didn’t happen overnight, and Athera was absolutely incandescent with rage about it. While she may have been getting better with allowing herself to be vulnerable, under the combined assault of Varric’s disapproval and Solas’ unnerving tendency to bare his soul at the drop of a hat, weakness was not the most comfortable position for her to be in.

Which is a euphemistic way of saying that she would rather strip off and dance naked in front of the whole of Kirkwall, than admit that she still couldn’t make her own damn tea.

It didn’t help that in the two days since Revas had taken her, Solas hadn’t let her out of his sight. She had taken to bellowing _chamber pot!_ at him as she left a room, which seemed to be the only reliable way of ensuring that he wouldn’t drop whatever he was doing and try to follow her. 

Even then, she often returned to find him hovering anxiously nearby, his relief upon seeing her so palpable, that she couldn’t even find it in herself to rebuke him.

In fact, if she had thought that the Dread Wolf was clingy before, it was nothing compared to the days that followed her rescue from the basement. 

Each morning, she woke surrounded by him, her back flush against his chest, while strong arms held her tightly and his nose pressed against her neck. At the first sign of movement he would jerk awake, his grip tightening, and then let out a relieved sigh when he realised she was still safely pressed against him.

“Solas,” she’d murmured to him more than once, as she twisted to dislodge his arms from around her. “I’m not going to disappear.”

“You _did_ disappear,” he’d tell her, and lock his arms back around her to press warm kisses to her throat, and stop her from moving away. 

At this point, she could never help but relent, the trembling path his lips trailed leaving her pliant and wanting, a curl of heat in her stomach that begged to be satisfied; and which he never did. 

But if he was clingy and infuriatingly chaste in bed, it was nothing compared to the way he was everywhere else.

She had thought that a grieving god was difficult to deal with. It paled in comparison to dealing with a frightened god, especially with Merrill and Varric still in the dark about his true identity, while Solas struggled to reign in his temper and his fear. 

She couldn’t make her own tea; she needed to rest. She couldn’t get up from her seat to greet Merrill when she arrived; anyone could arrive through the door. She couldn’t sit for too long playing cards with Varric, or else her muscles would seize up and she’d be sent straight back to bed. She couldn’t sit in bed for more than five minutes without the Dread Wolf climbing in alongside her, and clutching her to him as though she was made of smoke.

And she’d told and embellished the story of the Templars so many times, she was almost beginning to believe it herself. With each retelling, she’d never known Solas to look so dangerous, or so horrified. She prayed that he wouldn’t take it upon himself to hunt down her mysterious attackers, because although she disagreed with the Templars on principle, she didn’t want to be responsible for the deaths of men who’d had no part in her kidnapping, except as convenient figments of her imagination.

On the third day, when she’d woken, yet again, hot and uncomfortable against Solas’ chest, she finally decided that enough was enough.

“Ma fen,” she sighed, rolling over to face him.

He loosened his grip reluctantly to allow her to turn over, and his eyes flickered shut when she cupped his face with her hand.

“You have to talk to me,” she said softly. “I love that you want to protect me, but you can’t be there every second of the day.”

“Can’t I?” He asked quietly, his eyes still closed.

A sad smile curled one corner of her mouth, and she smoothed her thumb across the sharp planes of his cheekbones. 

“No,” she said gently. “I need to know what has you so frightened.”

He turned his face into the palm of her hand, his fingers curling against her back.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered, a pained frown pulling at his brow.

“I know that,” she prompted. “But you didn’t. I’m right here. You saved me.”

“But what if I hadn’t?”

His eyes flew open, and for a moment she wished that he’d kept them closed. It was easier to talk to him when she couldn’t see the hailstorm of hurt in his eyes.

“You did,” she reassured him. “And you can’t tell me this is the first time you’ve realised that one day I will die.”

It was the wrong thing to say. His expression, previously so open to her, closed off as though he’d slammed a shutter over his soul, and he recoiled as though she’d hit him. In one fluid movement, his arms were gone from around her waist, and he climbed to his feet and turned to face the window, a tremor running through his muscles as he turned his back towards her.

She sat up quickly, suppressing a groan at the still-throbbing ache in her shoulders, and scrambled to correct her mistake.

“Solas?”

He didn’t answer.

“What did I say?”

He drew in a deep breath, as though winded, and when he turned back to face her she couldn’t identify the terrible emotion in his eyes.

“Is it so simple a thing for you?” He whispered. “To speak of your own death, as if it is nothing?”

She frowned, considering, suddenly aware that their perspectives on death were immensely incompatible. To Solas, death was not an inevitability. How could it be, when he had lived for thousands of years?

“Ir abelas,” she said softly. “I forget that you don’t treat death the way a mortal does.”

She moved backwards across the bed to make space for him, and held out her arms.

“Come here,” she said softly. “This will be a hard conversation for you, and I would like to be able to hold you, at least.”

He hesitated, his expression still closed, and then with a helpless sigh he sagged forwards and joined her, curling up obediently with his head in her lap, and his arms once more around her waist. Now that he was in her arms, she could feel that he was trembling, and she draped one arm around his back and rested her other hand on the nape of his neck.

“Ir abelas,” she said again, and struggled to find the right words to explain. 

“You told me once,” she began tentatively. “That the modern elves believed a death by old age to be a natural one, when nothing could be further from the truth.”

“It _isn’t_ natural,” he murmured into her stomach. “It is an abomination.”

She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to argue with him in kind. He needed her to be gentle with him right now, and she would be.

“From your perspective, perhaps,” she allowed, and hushed him gently when he opened his mouth to protest. “But you must understand, ma fen, that you have been asleep for five _thousand_ years. In that time, there have been hundreds of generations who have lived, and died, within a century.”

He tightened his grip on her, his expression anguished.

“To us, death is the most natural thing in the world. More natural than the sun, and the sea, and the wind.”

She paused, trying to gather her thoughts, and he watched her steadily, his thumb rubbing soft circles over her hip.

“Death is the price of life,” she decided at last. “It is the thing that propels us forward. The means by which we understand the world and ourselves. The knowledge we will die forces us to do things we might not otherwise have been brave enough to. The thought that I might die at any moment, is what made me join the revas’shiral.”

She smiled wryly.

“You might say it’s also what got me captured and sent to Tevinter.”

At this, Solas pressed his face into her stomach, nuzzling her gently, and she soothed him with her fingers across the back of his head.

“But it was also what kept me fighting while I was there. The idea that what was left of my life might be spent being enslaved to someone else’s whims, was so abhorrent to me, I couldn’t simply give up and wait for it to happen.”

She looked down, to see that he was watching her with a tender, sorrowful expression. She smiled gently at him. 

“Some of the greatest works of art in the world have been created in response to death. It is a part of this world. So, while we may fear it, as anyone would fear the unknown, it is easy for me to speak of. It has been an immutable fact of my life.”

She ran her thumb tenderly over his lips as he stared into the middle-distance, thoughtful and harrowed in equal measure.

“I understand that to you it is natural,” he said softly at last. “But to me… Hearing you speak of your-”

He swallowed, hard.

“Hearing you speak of your non-existence, is like hearing my heart get ripped away.”

Her own heart leapt in her chest, and she ignored it firmly.

“In another world, you would have had thousands of years.”

He looked up at her, his eyes shining.

“I _want_ you to have thousands of years. The thought that you won’t, that it is _my fault_ that you won’t…”

She cupped his cheek with her hand and forced him to meet her gaze.

“No, ma fen,” she said firmly. “Without the veil, the world would have burned. There would have been nothing for us at all. Nothing for me.” She smiled. “There wouldn’t even have _been_ a me, probably. You did not give the elves death, Solas. You gave us all a chance at life.”

For a long moment, he simply stared at her, stunned. And then she found herself pushed back against the mattress as he swooped down on her and kissed her as though he would devour her.

She gasped, the sharp spike of pain in her shoulder giving way to a burning arousal, as he pressed her beneath him and drank from her mouth like he was drowning.

She had been right before, she decided distantly, as her body was dragged away by his tide. There was no-one in Thedas who kissed like Solas. She was worried she could become addicted to it.

His lips moved hungrily over hers, one arm keeping her pinned beneath him while his other hand held the back of her head, his nails scratching against her scalp as soft moans fell from his mouth and vibrated against her skin.

_Gods_ , but if he didn’t stop kissing her like that, she was simply going to tear his clothes off and jump him.

When his lips left hers and began to trail along her jaw, dipping lower to nip and suck at her neck, she finally gasped and clutched at his back.

“Solas,” she mewled. “Ma fen, you’re going to drive me insane.”

He stilled, hot breaths panting at her neck as he warred with himself. She held perfectly still, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the more primal part of her desperately hoping that he would keep going, even while her considered mind recognised that neither of them were in the best emotional state for this kind of step.

After a fraught few moments, the tension in his body melted, and he rested his forehead against her neck and struggled to catch his breath.

“Ir abelas,” he said, in a gratifyingly strained voice. “It has been a long time since anyone has had such an effect on me.”

He looked up at her with an endearingly bashful smile, his cheeks flushed.

“It seems as though you may be my undoing, da’len.”

“I’m glad,” she replied, her voice rough. “Since I’ve been so looking forward to seeing you come undone.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, she felt like prey. He ran his gaze hungrily over her face, and then another smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he chuckled and pinched her side gently, making her yelp.

“Don’t be difficult,” he murmured against her cheek. “You’ve been difficult enough already.”

She laughed disbelievingly.

“That’s a bold statement from the man who’s been attempting to replace my shadow for the last few days.”

He winced guiltily, and then lifted himself off her to tuck his head against her shoulder as though it were the most natural place in the world for him to be.

“Ir abelas,” he said, a shadow of his earlier sadness falling over his face. “I do not mean to be so over-bearing.”

He sighed, and she trailed her fingers over the back of his neck while she waited for him to gather his thoughts.

“I do not know if I can describe to you what it was like, to return here and find you gone,” he said softly. “I have had no-one of my own for thousands of years. I couldn’t afford to. I made it a point of honour not to have, not to want, not to _need_ anything for myself. How could I, when so much depended on me?” 

He tucked himself more tightly against her, his voice growing softer.

“I loved Mythal,” he said. “Adored her, really. In her, I saw everything that the People should have been. She was strong, and devastatingly clever, with a powerful desire for justice. I watched her turn a struggling nation into the most remarkable civilisation ever to have existed.”

He sighed heavily against her skin, and Athera tightened the arm that was around his shoulders.

“I pledged myself to her cause, delighting when she succeeded. There was nothing I loved so much as using my skills to further her plans.”

His voice grew choked, and he drew in a shuddering breath.

“She was everything to me, and I was meant to be her protector. Her most trusted general. But when the time came, I failed her.”

She felt the skin beneath her jaw grow damp, and pressed a kiss to his forehead, her throat tight.

“Her murder changed everything. Changed _me_. I was no longer a general, serving someone else’s cause. Mythal’s people rallied to me within days. There was no-one else who could stand against the Evanuris, when they flew so quickly into war with the Forgotten Ones. In Mythal’s place, I became the saviour. The protector.”

He laughed bitterly.

“The Dread Wolf.”

She kissed his forehead again, and wondered idly if someone else’s pain should hurt the way that his hurt her. 

“Mythal was dead, and Solas was forgotten. _I_ forgot him,” he murmured. “I had no other choice. In all the years since, I have never been wanted for myself, only for what I could give to the war. Consequently, I have never wanted anything for myself. I couldn’t.”

He lifted his head and looked at her, his fingers trailing tenderly over her face.

“But I want you,” he confessed quietly. “I want you even though it is a terrible idea.”

He smiled unhappily.

“I told you before that I felt unbalanced. _You_ unbalance me. I don’t want you because it makes sense. I don’t want you for war, or politics, or some small part of a larger plan.”

He swallowed and looked away, his gaze drifting to her shoulder as his thumb brushed softly against her jaw.

“I arrived once to a place that I had always believed to be safe, only to find my dearest friend dead, and for the whole of my world to come crashing down around me,” he said hoarsely. “Three nights ago, I returned to this room to find you gone, with no idea of what might have happened to you.”

Athera wiped away the tears that had started to fall down his face. Her heart felt as though it might burst.

“I did not think that I could feel terror like that again,” he whispered. “I had not thought to guard myself against it.”

He met her gaze again, his expression open and vulnerable.

“Please,” he asked softly. “Be patient with me. I will find a way to be less over-bearing, I swear it. But for now, the only time I feel myself to be calm is when you are in my arms. If I could…” He swallowed. “If I could just have some time-”

She cut him off with a kiss; a tender, chaste thing that made a fragile, grateful sound cut off in his throat, as he kissed her back and relaxed against her.

“Take all the time you need,” she said softly. 

He let out a relieved sigh and placed his cheek to her chest.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I will try to get better at letting you out of my sight.”

Athera tucked the blankets around him and held him close, her thoughts spinning. He had just compared her to Mythal; compared the fear of losing her, to the death of the god whose vallaslin she had marked over her face. How could she ever process that?

Once again, Solas’ capacity for feeling overwhelmed her. Where she expected sadness, he showed her grief; where she looked for happiness, he gave her delirious joy; and where she expected fear, he handed her the terror of a thousand lifetimes to witness, and hold, and somehow find a way to soothe away.

She had no idea how to manage such extremes of emotion. 

She fell back on making a joke. 

“So, does this mean that I can stop yelling _chamber pot!_ at you from across the bar?” She asked with a grin.

Solas huffed through his nose.

“I really wish that you would,” he said dryly. 

And just like that, they were both laughing, his chest rumbling and her shoulders shaking as the ridiculousness of their situation suddenly became clear to them both. 

When their giggles had subsided, he sat up and wiped at his face.

“I actually have something for you,” he said, somewhat shyly. “A gift, of sorts. I was going to give it to you before, but with everything that happened…”

He stood up, and Athera shifted into a sitting position and watched as he rummaged in his pack - which had discreetly made its way into her room at some point since her rescue. 

“I wanted to give you something to show how much you mean to me,” he said, his cheeks beginning to pink. “But I also wanted you to have something that was your own as well, and not just a mere trinket.”

He perched on the edge of the bed at her side, and handed her a roughly wrapped package, looking away uncertainly as she peeled back the paper.

Instantly, a lump rose in her throat, and she gripped the small object between her hands and stared at him disbelievingly.

“Is this..?”

“Your peach stone,” he confirmed.

With a shaky breath, she opened her hand again and stared down at the precious thing. It was the stone Adahlen had given to her, but now it was carved into the shape of a flame, and bound to a fine length of dark cord that was plaited to form a necklace.

“I wasn’t sure if you knew,” Solas said softly. “But in Elvhen, Isera means-”

“-A fiery dream.” 

She swallowed, her throat thick. Solas nodded, his expression hesitant.

“I thought that, this way, you could always have her with you. I also added a few minor enchantments. It won’t work quite the way my jawbone does, but it will help you to replenish mana more quickly, and there are small defensive spells weaved into the stone as well.”

He was watching her anxiously now, but she couldn’t seem to speak.

“I thought that this way,” he continued hurriedly. “It would be as though we were both protecting you, and-”

She kissed him, fisting her hands into his tunic and pulling him against her roughly. She kissed him, because if she didn’t, she would either start to cry, or say something that neither of them were ready to hear just yet.

When they broke apart again, Solas offered her a tentative smile, and despite her best efforts, her vision grew blurry with tears.

“It’s ok, then?” He asked nervously, his eyes searching her face. “I was worried that I may have over-stepped a boundary, or-”

She kissed him again.

“Shut up,” she said hoarsely. “It’s perfect.”

The beaming smile he offered her in return, was only the second best present she’d received that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, look at this! A Christmas Eve present for you all!
> 
> Happy Holidays to everyone celebrating; I hope you're all staying safe and finding ways to make this weirdest of festive periods nice, despite the whole pandemic thing.
> 
> This is the last chapter that I have completely written of this fic so far, and I'll be taking a short break over Christmas/New Year, so it may be a couple of weeks before the next updates start to roll in (or, I may find myself bored and end up writing loads, who knows?!)
> 
> Either way, thanks for all of your comments over the last few months, they've been wonderful! You will be hearing more from Athera and Solas very soon :D


	33. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Fenris return to Kirkwall.

She should have known the fragile peace inside the Hanged Man’s walls was too good to last. But when Hawke and Fenris stormed inside on a night that was pouring with rain, she still managed to hope that everything would be alright. 

Then she saw the blood.

Fenris stalked past their table, barely acknowledging the four of them as he disappeared behind the bar and Hawke stumbled towards them. 

“Get her upstairs,” he bit out. “Quickly.”

A hush had fallen over the room, and Solas met her eye grimly as she and Merrill took hold of the warrior’s arms, and hauled her into Varric’s room.

“Don’t worry about me,” Hawke protested, blood darkening the front of her armour. “Fenris is over-reacting.”

It would have been more convincing if she hadn’t collapsed on the bed.

“Varric,” Athera said, already stripping her pauldrons away. “Fill up a basin and bring it here.”

The dwarf hurried to comply.

“Merrill, help me with her clothes.”

The mage got to work on her boots, her face pinched with worry.

“Solas-” She began, but he was already by her side, his magic seeking out Hawke’s injuries and his jaw tight.

“It’s not life-threatening,” he said softly. “The wound isn’t deep, but it’s not recent either, and I suspect there’s an infection growing.”

They all flinched backwards as the door crashed open and Fenris stalked inside, his arms full of bandages, and a bottle of whiskey sticking out of the top of his freshly-stocked pack.

“Well?” He demanded.

“She’ll be fine,” Athera replied.

He grunted, his eyes roving searchingly over Hawke’s face with an expression Athera couldn’t place, before he pulled out the chair at Varric’s desk and sat down in it heavily. Merrill opened her mouth, only to relent when Varric shook his head emphatically, and Hawke eased herself into a sitting position and began to pull her boots back on.

“Hey!” Merrill protested. “I just got those off!”

“Sorry,” Hawke said gruffly. “No time. I just need you to patch me up, and then we need to get out of here.”

Athera felt Solas stiffen at her side as silence fell over the room.

“We?” Varric asked.

“Afraid so,” the warrior sighed. “We ran into the Grand Enchanter on our way back from the Vinmark Mountains. It seems that Divine Justinia’s not very happy with me.”

“You went back to the mountains?” Merrill asked, confused. “Why?”

But Athera’s blood had already run cold.

“The mage-Templar war,” she said softly. 

Hawke nodded, her expression stern, and she sat down heavily on the bed. 

“You think she’s going to order another Exalted March.”

“This time, on Kirkwall.”

Athera closed her eyes, her heart pounding in her head. The Exalted March that destroyed her People, this time turned on the mages, and on her friends. Her chest felt tight, and she struggled to draw in enough air.

Would this world ever stop hunting them, simply for being who they were? 

Distantly, she heard Fenris start to speak, and felt Solas’ gaze on her face from the other side of the room.

“Whether she truly will or not doesn’t matter at this point,” Fenris said. “It only matters that she might, and that the Templars know that Hawke’s here.”

“While I’m in the city, the mages aren’t safe,” Hawke continued. “If we leave now, we can divide the Chantry’s forces and give them less of a reason to attack.”

She heard Merrill and Varric start to protest, but she found herself somehow apart from it all, as though suspended in amber. In a strange way, this felt inevitable. The revas’shiral. The Dread Wolf’s awakening. Adahlen’s prophecy. The mage-Templar war. Felassan and Revas. Even Isera’s death. It all felt as though events had been leading her, inextricably to this moment, and now she had no choice but to let the tide take her where it may.

She opened her eyes.

“Ok,” she said, into the silence. “The war is here.”

All eyes were turned to her, and she felt Solas’ gaze burning in her vision like starlight.

“We’d better be ready when it comes.”

***

They left the city under the cover of storm and darkness, leaving Varric and Merrill behind as their final link to the mages. The dwarf could charm anyone, and was hardly of high enough value to the Divine to warrant an armed incursion. Merrill simply wouldn’t be driven from the alienage, when there was still so much work to be done.

Athera had the strangest feeling, as she hugged her two friends goodbye, that this was the last time they would meet. In the absence of any gods she could trust in, she prayed silently into the void, that she would turn out to be wrong.

But there was no time to mourn their parting. With Hawke’s wounds bound and their packs overflowing with supplies, she bent her head into the wind and turned her back on Kirkwall.

Solas said little as they slipped out of the city, but with every step they took into the squalling winds, she felt his tension grow. 

The storm was relentless, thunder rumbling overhead and the rain so thick she could scarcely make out the silhouettes of the two warriors ahead of her, as they slipped into the surrounding countryside, making for the forests. 

There was more to this story, she knew, as she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, her body still weak from the day spent hanging in the basement. There was a tension between Fenris and Hawke that spoke of more than the Chantry’s hunt, and once again, she had the peculiar sensation that she was caught at a crossroads of inevitable cause and effect; she just couldn’t see the threads that had bound her here.

History seemed to be marching at their side as they struggled through wind and rain, and flashes of lightning illuminated the shadows in every blade of grass, while the lights of the city receded behind them. 

She wondered if Revas was watching. She wondered if the Templars knew that Hawke had already escaped. She wondered if Merrill and Varric were sitting together now, uncertain of what would come next.

Ahead of her, the Champion of Kirkwall and a Tevinter slave strode forward into darkness.

At her side, the Dread Wolf followed her without question, unknowing of where she would lead.

She steeled herself and raised her collar against the wind, Fenris’ whispered words to her as they’d left the inn, still ringing in her head.

_It isn’t just the Chantry_ , he’d said, his eyes dull with fatigue. _We met one of the Wardens in the mountains, on their way to answer the Call._

_There's going to be another Blight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hiiiiii everyone! I'm baaaaack! (kind of!)
> 
> Sorry it's been such a long wait for such a short chapter; i've been sick (thankfully, not with covid though) and it's made writing a bit difficult. As you can probably tell, this is more of a connecting chapter, setting up for the next arc. We'll be seeing much more of life outside of Kirkwall and seeing how Solas & Athera cope with being uprooted, as well as what happens when we start to rub up against the Inquisition timeline. *nervous face!*
> 
> Hope you're all staying safe and doing well! <3


	34. New Paths

They camped in a cave the first night, although to call the cramped overhang of rock a cave was perhaps a little too generous. It was a well-worn trailmark en route to the Nevarran border - or Starkhaven - depending on which direction you turned, but it was more often used as a cache by the revas’shiral and Hawke’s company, than it was as a rest stop.

Still, it was a welcome relief to get out of the storm, and Athera was hardly going to turn her nose up at having a dry place to sleep for the night. None of them had been able to speak during the hours they’d spent trekking through the trees, the storm too loud and they too tired to bother shouting into the gale, but there were a thousand and one questions she needed to ask before they settled down to rest.

When they finally stumbled into the narrow cavern, soaked to the skin and shivering, she dropped her pack with a grimace, the hot ache in her shoulders throbbing in time with her pulse. 

“Get a fire going,” Hawke said to Fenris. “I’m going to talk to these two.”

She’d travelled with the two of them for long enough to know that this kind of instruction wasn’t unusual. While their relationship was equal, in the field, Hawke was the leader, and it had never seemed to cause a problem before. 

Tonight was different.

Fenris drew his hood back and shook damp hair out of his face, his eyes blazing.

“We will speak to them together, or not at all,” he growled. 

Hawke sighed.

“Fen-”

“This isn’t up for debate. You owe me that much, at least.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, and then Hawke exhaled a long sigh and nodded in defeat, before catching her eye.

“Get into something dry,” she said quietly. “This might take a while.”

Solas shot her a considering look as they dressed in warmer clothes, and Hawke and Fenris built a fire and laid out the bedrolls around it. She brushed his hand with hers as she sat near the flames, and the Dread Wolf curled his arm around her waist and tugged her gently against him, until her back was pressed to his chest, and he could brush his cheek over her hair. 

She felt the tension in his muscles – the concern that they were adrift once again, and somehow unsafe in ways neither of them understood yet - and then he inhaled subtly against her neck, and she smiled as he relaxed against her.

“One day,” she murmured to him, while Hawke and Fenris dressed behind them. “You’re going to have to tell me, truly, what it is that your nose tells you when you do that.”

His fingers tightened on her hip, and he chuckled and nuzzled her gently.

“All you need to know, is that it calms me to know you’re here,” he said softly, and brushed a kiss to her temple.

She suppressed a shiver of pleasure, and firmly ignored the heat that rose to her face. When he said things like that, it plucked at her nerves and turned her into an embarrassed, self-conscious mess. But there was no need for him to know just how easily he could affect her, with little more than a sentence and the press of his lips.

She sat up straighter as Fenris and Hawke settled themselves on the other side of the fire, noting, with a sinking feeling, that they both took great pains not to touch each other; even accidentally. She searched the young wolf’s face for any clue as to what had happened between them, but found only a resigned exhaustion sitting dully behind his eyes.

For a long moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire, and the howling of the storm beyond the rock shelf they were sheltered behind, and then Hawke lifted her head to observe them over the flames.

“Thank you,” the warrior said quietly. “For leaving with us so quickly.”

Athera swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

“Of course,” she replied, equally softly. “It’s not the first time we’ve had to make a run for it together, is it?”

Hawke smiled sadly and shook her head, her eyes flicking over to Solas at her back, and considering him carefully.

“I know I can’t understand what the threat of an Exalted March truly means,” she said. “To people who already have that history. But I know enough to understand that if there’s any way I can prevent one, then I should try.”

She frowned into the fire, and at her side, Fenris scowled at the floor.

“Fen and I,” she continued. “We went to the Vinmark Mountains following a tip off from one of the Templars who defected from the Order a few weeks ago.”

Athera drew herself up straighter in surprise, but it was Solas who spoke first.

“It was my understanding that a commitment to the Templars is made for life,” he said. “Given that the lyrium that sustains them is kept in the hands of the Chantry.”

“Usually, you'd be right,” Hawke agreed. “But the war has left many of them questioning their allegiances, and the few that are left in Kirkwall have become… Unpredictable.”

Solas’ hand clenched tightly around her waist. Guilt sat heavy in her stomach, and Athera twined her fingers with his and brushed her thumb over his knuckles in an attempt to soothe him. His horror at her kidnapping had slowly turned to fury over the last few days, and if there was one thing she was glad of in Hawke’s return, it was that it had forced her to take Solas away from Kirkwall; and the possibility of the Dread Wolf’s revenge. 

“This Templar had heard rumours about a strange kind of lyrium, stronger than any they were used to, and the Grey Wardens leaving their settlements and heading for the Deep Roads.”

“Another Calling,” Athera said grimly, and she nodded.

“He’d also heard that a Warden was conducting research into Corypheus-”

“-the magister?”

“Tevinter bastard,” Fenris huffed, drawing a small smile from Hawke.

“The same.”

Athera frowned, confused.

“But Corypheus is dead,” she said. “You killed him.”

Hawke nodded.

“I did, but there was something about the Templar that didn’t feel right. Maybe it was just desperation – he was young, and he’d signed up to be a Circle Guard, not a true soldier.”

Solas only just managed to turn his scoff into a cough at her ear, and she nudged him with her elbow in warning. 

“Whatever it was, I had to find out if there was any truth in it.”

Athera wet her lips.

“And what did you find?”

“The Vinmark mountains were crawling with Templars,” Hawke replied quietly. “And every town we passed through had some story of a different Warden leaving their post without warning.”

“A few had heard rumours of darkspawn in the caves,” Fenris took up the tale. “Like the ones we came across in the tunnels.”

“And then Grand Enchanter Fiona met us, although Andraste only knows how she knew where we were.”

“The Seekers of Truth are rumoured to be splitting from the Order,” Fenris said gruffly. “They’re looking for Hawke, but we don’t know why.”

Athera let out a long breath and rubbed a hand over her face.

“You think there’s more to the war than we know about,” she surmised. “And you think that each side might want to use you for their own ends.”

Hawke nodded grimly, her mouth drawn into a thin line.

“That’s not all she thinks,” Fenris said bitterly. “Go on. Tell them.” He pinned her with his gaze. “Tell them what your great plan is.”

Athera looked between the two of them uneasily.

“There’s more?”

Hawke hesitated, and then her shoulders slumped.

“I’m going into hiding,” she said softly, and Athera watched as Fenris’ hands clenched into fists.

She tried to meet his gaze, uncertain of what could have made him so angry, and then Hawke spoke the final word:

“Alone.”

Suddenly, the heat of the young wolf’s gaze and the tortured line of his mouth made sense, and Athera’s heart ached for him. For all of his gruff demeanour and fierce pride, he was devoted to her, and Hawke was sending him away.

“Are you sure that’s-” She began, but Hawke snapped her head up and the words died on her lips.

“I am not arguing about this,” the warrior said firmly. “It’s me the Chantry wants, and whoever is with me will be in danger, no matter how far I run.”

“But surely that’s my choice to make?” Fenris argued, a note of pleading entering his voice that he couldn’t entirely hide. “We’ve been in danger before.”

“This is different.”

“Why?”

“Because they can’t have both of us!” Hawke shouted, her eyes glistening. “I need to leave, but you can still do some good here. The war will make refugees of so many, and you know what happens when safety becomes scarce. The revas’shiral will need you, now more than ever. The Chantry can’t be allowed to pull us both out of the fight.”

Fenris fell silent, and Athera leant back slightly into Solas, feeling him nestle her closer beneath his chin as she did so. This was what the root of the terrible atmosphere had been, since the two warriors had stormed into the Hanged Man and uprooted them once again.

It wasn’t the war, or the lyrium, or even the behaviour of the Wardens that had made Fenris so afraid; it was that the woman he loved was pulling away from him, and he was powerless to keep her at his side.

Athera gripped Solas’ hand tightly in her own, suddenly unbearably grateful that he seemed to need her even more than she wanted him. She didn’t know, now, how she would take it if fate and circumstance forced them apart. 

“So, what now?” She heard herself say. “What do you need us to do?”

Hawke smiled at her approvingly, even as the rain howled outside and the fire spat sparks into the air.

“Tomorrow, Fenris and I will begin the journey to Starkhaven.” The young wolf huffed through his nose, but said nothing. “There are supplies there he’ll need, and it will be easier for me to slip away unnoticed in the city.”

Athera nodded. It made sense. Even if she wanted to argue Fenris’ case for him – Hawke and the wolf had always been better together than apart – it was not her argument to make.

“And us?” She asked. “You brought Solas and me out of Kirkwall for a reason.”

Hawke sighed.

“I did,” she said, and then hesitated. “I want you to know, Solas, that I’m only trusting you with this because Athera trusts you, and I would trust Athera with my life.”

Solas inclined his head.

“That makes two of us,” he said calmly.

Hawke considered him for a long moment, and then nodded again.

“Fenris will travel with me as far as Starkhaven, but then he’ll be returning to the revas’shiral,” she said at last. “The war here has meant the slavers have become more active, and the rescue parties have had their work cut out for them at the border.”

“You want me to go back,” Athera guessed. “To be an amelan again.”

“Yes and no,” Hawke replied. “There’s a cottage in the Nevarran hills, close to one of the tunnel entrances. The amelans have been using it as a message and supply drop, but with so many people passing through it’s taking too long to pass the information on, and intelligence is getting missed.”

“Not only that,” Fenris continued, his face still turned to the ground. “But it’s falling apart. If it were renovated, it could house ten people, easily, but at the moment most of the rooms aren’t even watertight.”

“You’re hoping to use it as both an information drop and another safe house,” Athera concluded.

“More like an overflow shelter,” Hawke replied. “But yes. The revas’shiral needs someone they can trust to stay resident there for a couple of months. Keep an eye on the people passing through. Offer food and supplies to the slaves escaping into the Free Marches. Be a point of contact for other members, and give me a line of communication to Fenris, assuming I can get word out from wherever I end up.”

The warrior smiled slightly, her eyes sparking as she looked at Solas.

“How are you at DIY?”

Athera felt the displeased sigh he made as a gust of air against the back of her neck, and she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Hawke was ordering the Dread Wolf to decorate a house for her.

“I believe I will manage,” Solas said, his voice clipped. “But no matter what _your_ designs may be, I intend to go where Athera goes.” His grip on her waist tightened again, and she felt his muscles harden into stone at her back. “I understand that in an organisation like the revas’shiral there will be a chain of command, and I will comply-” he paused. “-within reason. But this is my line in the sand. I will not be ordered elsewhere.”

Hawke watched him steadily, and Athera swallowed, the air between them growing tense. After a long minute had elapsed, the fire sparking between them and Solas rigid behind her, the warrior let her stern expression fall, and then grinned widely and met her gaze.

“Athera?” She asked. “Is that alright with you?”

Athera grimaced. In all of their conversations, she had neglected to mention one fairly important thing to Solas. Now, she shifted away from the circle of his arms and turned to face him, meeting his cautious expression with an apologetic smile, and holding out her hand.

“Athera Arlanan,” she introduced herself. “Former Dalish First. Former slave. Former freedom fighter.” She drew a deep breath in. “And before I left, the Leader of the Free Marches division of the revas’shiral.”

The Dread Wolf’s eyes widened, and then she felt his attention sharpen into something that looked a lot like respect. He reached out and took her hand firmly in his own.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said softly, a smile tugging at one side of his mouth.

She let out a long breath and cast her gaze back to Hawke.

“You always planned for me to come back,” she accused her, and the warrior shrugged easily.

“Of course. Loranil knows that he’s only holding the fort. He’ll be glad to see you return to your place there.”

Athera blew out another long breath through her nose and shook her head, smiling wryly.

“Well then, Solas,” she said. “This wasn’t exactly how I’d planned for today to go, but since we’re here, I suppose there’s only one thing to say.”

She grinned.

“Welcome to the revas’shiral.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking forward to dragging you all to this part of the story :D 
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Revas'shiral: Path to Freedom/Journey to Freedom  
> Amelan - Guardian/protector


	35. Safe House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas gets a hand job.
> 
> That's it. That's the chapter.

They arrived at the would-be safe house two days later, just as twilight was fading from the sky. Leaving Hawke again had been harder than she’d expected, and she kissed Fenris on the cheek as he left for Starkhaven, knowing that their parting would wound him more deeply than he’d ever say. 

Now, as the sky darkened with the threat of more rain, Athera scaled the eaves of the dilapidated cottage and lifted one of the loose tiles to access the key. 

Despite Fenris’ insistence that it would easily sleep ten people, the size of the place still surprised her. The grey stone building was two-storeys high and listing to one side. Many of the dark roof tiles were chipped and missing, and, while sheltered in a copse of trees against a backdrop of rolling hills, the poorly-tended garden was overgrown and thick with thistles.

Even so, there was a witchy beauty about the place that made her heart feel lighter than it had done in weeks. Isolated and remote, the sky was an open plane above it. A stream babbled over rocks somewhere nearby, ivy climbed up the walls, and a tilting well at the border of the woods leant a mythically timeless air to the scene. 

She slipped back down onto the ground, landing lightly at Solas’ side, and breathing in the scent of rain-drenched grass and wind-blown leaves. The smell reminded her of home. She could live in cities and survive on their streets, but in her heart she was still a Dalish elf. Walls caged her and made her into something small. The open wilds gave her the space to breathe. 

She opened the door to the cottage and lead them both inside, sending a magelight to the ceiling and illuminating a wide living space of stone floors and mismatched furniture. A soot-dark fireplace took up most of one wall, around which two sofas and a rickety looking armchair were arranged. 

A large, roughly-hewn table with one of the legs missing lilted in front of a small cooking area, the bulk of the adjoining room overshadowed by a cast-iron stove that looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned in centuries. Mismatched rugs littered the floor, and a thick carpet of dust bloomed in the air as they made their way inside.

She sneezed as soon as Solas shut the door behind them, and then rubbed a hand over her nose irritably, waving the disturbance away.

“Well, it’ll certainly need a clean.”

She turned back to face him, only to find him smiling at her with aching fondness, a blush sitting high on his cheeks.

“What?” She asked, suddenly self-conscious. “What did I do?”

In answer, he slipped his arms around her waist and pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth, his lips curved into a smile when he pulled away to rest them against her cheek.

“That was adorable,” he murmured.

She felt her own cheeks flame in response, and buried her face in his tunic while he chuckled and nuzzled her hair.

“Hush,” she grumbled, fighting a smile. “It was only a sneeze.”

“It was a very adorable sneeze,” he assured her.

Her cheeks warmed still further, and she shoved him lightly and turned away, attempting to hide the traitorous grin that had stubbornly lit up her face.

“Hush,” she said again. “Or I’ll start writing more fluffy poems, and then you’ll be sorry.”

He laughed, the sound deep and rich, as he leant languidly against the wall to watch her make a circuit of the room.

“I would never stand in the way of your development as a poet,” he said, still smiling. “What kind of a hahren would I be if I didn’t encourage the da’lens to pursue their creative whims?”

She scoffed disbelievingly and turned back to face him.

“Da’len?” She asked. “ _Really_?”

His face was caught in shadows but his eyes were bright in the dark, his lips quirked distractingly and his legs crossed at the ankle.

“Perhaps not,” he said softly. 

His gaze held hers from across the room, and she suddenly became very aware that they were truly alone for the first time since she’d carried him to the cave. Then, he had been a wounded god; a terrifying representation of her most primal fears and superstitions that she half-believed had been sent to ruin her. 

Now, he was Solas, and Solas was watching her with a hunger that should have made her frightened, but which only made her tremble in a very different way.

She broke his gaze first, clearing her throat and smoothing her hands down the front of her shirt, her heart beating wildly against her ribs.

“I should go and check on the rest of the cottage.”

“Of course,” he agreed quietly. “I will see if I can make the living area habitable for the night.”

She slipped away with a brief smile over her shoulder, and hurried up the creaking stairs, a flurry of butterflies in her stomach that had everything to do with the intense attention he paid to her back as she left. 

Upstairs, she found a warren of sleeping areas and a large tiled room with an impressive copper bathtub in the centre. A cursory inspection revealed that the water tank above it was blocked, and she made a mental note to make clearing it a priority as soon as she could - visions of soaking in a cloud of steam already filling her mind.

At the end of a dust-choked corridor she found the master bedroom, an impressive four-poster bed taking up most of the space, with a wide oval window over-looking the garden. The sheets were moth-eaten and released another cloud of dust that made her sneeze when she pulled them off, and she cursed under her breath as her thoughts wandered to Solas again, and her stomach did a flip.

_That was adorable._

She shivered pleasantly, and then scrubbed her hands over her face, mortified by the path of her own moonstruck thoughts. This was ridiculous. She had shared a bed with him countless times. She’d sat by the bath while he reclined in it naked, for Blight’s sake!

But there had never been any true intent there before, she realised, as she dug through a creaking wardrobe and pulled out a set of almost-clean linens. Their courtship – if she could even call it that – had started backwards.

They’d shared a bed as friends first. She’d comforted him through trauma. He’d wrapped himself around her while she recovered from Revas’ torture. Beyond a few feverish kisses and whispered endearments, their physical relationship was one of comfort and companionship. It had never truly held any heat.

Now, though, they were alone in the middle of no-where. No twisted monsters had carved trenches in his back. No grieving ancient had tormented her in a basement. There was no Varric sleeping down the corridor; no eluvian to occupy Solas’ thoughts. There was only the two of them, here together at last.

The Dread Wolf and the Dalish elf, waking the sleeping cottage while the war lingered outside. It was almost like a fairytale, she scoffed inwardly. Or like a horror story.

With the bed made, she sank down onto the edge of the mattress to watch the last of the daylight fade from the window. Her pulse thrummed in her throat and her cheeks still felt warm. She thought of the way Solas’ eyes followed her when she crossed a room. She thought of how his lips felt against hers, and the insistence of his hands as they trailed a path along her body. 

She stood up quickly, a flurry of conflicting impulses swooping low in her stomach and her hands twisting together nervously. She looked back at the bed, and imagined how he would look, splayed out on the sheets beneath her.

Suddenly panicked, she bit her lip and turned away, shaking the image out of her mind before it could take root, and then berating herself for the nerves that skittered through her veins. She was not some blushing virgin! The mere thought of sex hadn’t made her feel so unsettled since she was a teen.

But this wasn’t just sex with anyone; this was sex with the Dread Wolf, she realised, and then immediately wished that she hadn’t. The very thought was enough to make her hysterical. Trembling all over again, she paced a track around the room, her thoughts twisting and folding in on themselves while her body oscillated between terror and want.

Since the first day they’d met, Athera has managed to keep a lid of logic clamped tightly over her more tender emotions. 

So, she was in a cave with the Dread Wolf – he was weak and injured and not the trickster she’d been promised. So, Fen’Harel had been taken hostage by the Dalish – well, she had to go after him, since she could hardly let him go wandering around unchecked. 

It had made sense to keep him with her, when he’d asked to see more of the world. Even his friendship with Merrill was reasonable in a certain light, if her ultimate aim was to convince him that Thedas and its people were worth saving.

But there is no logic left now, here in the cottage. There is only the frenetic pulse of her heart when he laughs. The catch of her breath when he kisses her. The warmth of his arms and the heat in her face when he holds her. There is only the knowledge that he has vowed to follow her, and that he is downstairs, right now, and waiting for her to return.

She feels as though she might be drunk. 

She hesitates at the doorway, feeling suddenly nauseous even as excitement thrums through her nerves. He is waiting for her. The pull of that thought is inexorable; her want for him undeniable. She feels, somehow, that she’s given her soul away in a bargain she never saw coming.

Whatever comes next feels inevitable. She steels herself, and makes her way back down the stairs, only to pause on the threshold in silent surprise.

The living area has been transformed. Dust no longer lays thick across the ground. A fire crackles merrily in the hearth. Solas has removed their cooking utensils and placed them neatly away around the stove, and when she enters the room he has his back turned away from her, while he rummages inside a cupboard. 

The scene is so hopelessly domestic, that she can’t help but smile. All at once, her nerves fade into the background. She is not wandering, lost and adrift, into the arms of an ancient god. She is coming home to Solas.

Her foot creaks on the floorboards and he turns around, a pair of wine glasses in his hand and a dusty bottle of Tevinter red on the worktop behind him. His smile is hesitant and unsure, and the evidence of his uncertainty erases the last of hers. 

“I found this in the pantry,” he says, his voice quiet in the dark. “I thought we might toast your return to the revas’shiral.”

She can’t help it. She crosses the room, and kisses him; a lingering press of lips that makes him melt endearingly against her.

“What was that for?” He asks softly when she pulls away.

She shrugs, her smile tender as his eyes rove searchingly over her face.

“Do I need a reason to kiss you?” 

With measured movements, Solas places the glasses next to the wine, and then turns back to face her and cradles her head in his hands. She holds still beneath his scrutiny as his eyes map every inch of her face, his thumbs brushing tenderly over her cheeks and running along the curve of her jaw.

He draws in a deep breath, some powerful emotion she can’t place flickering in the hollows of his eyes, and then his lips quirk up and he shakes his head, as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“No,” he says at last. “You never need a reason to kiss me.”

And then he swoops down and draws her to him, and she is pulled away with the tide. 

She clutches at his shoulders as his lips move over hers, needy and wanting, and insistent in a way she knows she’ll never get used to. It’s like the first time she kissed him, except now there’s no fear driving his actions. There’s only want, and heat, and the bite of his fingers as he clings to her waist and forces her backwards towards the sofa.

His hands slip down to grip the curve of her ass, and she pushes herself against him and runs her fingers lightly over the tip of his ear. Even with everything she knows about him, the strength of his reaction to such a small tease, takes her by surprise. His hips stutter against her, his body turns rigid, and he breaks off their kiss to groan brokenly and press his lips to her cheek.

The sound of his pleasure sends a bolt of heat right through her, and she suddenly realises that she wants more; more of the way he clings to her hips; more of his fingers mapping every inch of her he can reach; more of his voice shattered with need and smothered into her skin. She fists her hands in his tunic, and pushes him down onto the cushions.

He lands on his back with a gasp, his pupils blown wide and his lips kiss-swollen and flushed. She follows him down, locking her legs on either side of his hips and claiming his mouth in another scorching kiss. He moans again, his hands kneading her thighs and then sliding back to grip at her ass, as his tongue seeks entry into her mouth.

Suddenly, she feels powerful. 

She gets a hand under his tunic, running her fingers lightly over the firm ridges of muscle and smiling against his lips when he shudders. There will never be enough time, she thinks, for her to touch him as often as she would like. But that’s no reason not to try.

Her fingers quest upwards, finding a pebbled nipple and pinching it lightly as her lips trail a path down the side of his jaw. The noise he makes is guttural and yearning, and she takes advantage of his distraction to roll her hips against the steel press of his straining arousal, and delights when his body starts to seize.

“ _Athera_ ,” he groans, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on her thigh.

She dips her head and sucks at the skin of his neck, rocking her hips again and drawing a desperate cry from low in his throat, as he throws his head back and bucks up into her, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Athera, Athera, Athera,” he chants, and she takes the opportunity to pull his tunic over his head, and then sits back to admire her work.

Beneath her, the trickster god is lost and wanting. A deep red flush blossoms on his cheeks and spreads across the smooth skin of his chest. His eyes are half-lidded and his lips parted with desire, and he can’t seem to stop his hands from clinging to her as he rocks his hips up to meet hers. She isn’t sure she’s ever seen anything more beautiful. 

She kisses him again, meeting his shaking thrusts with a languid one of her own that makes him groan into her mouth, and then sit up suddenly to hide his face against her shoulder. Beneath her hands, he is trembling, and she scratches her nails lightly down his back simply for the thrill of hearing him whimper against her skin.

“Athera,” he pleads, his voice high and thin. “Sathan. _Please_.”

She licks a stripe up the blade of his ear, and he gasps, his arms suddenly tightening around her until she could almost believe he was trying to pull her into his chest.

“Wait,” he chokes, his breathing becoming strained. “Athera, I-”

She isn’t sure she’s ever been so turned on in her life. She ignores him, sucking his ear lobe into her mouth and rocking her hips again.

“ _Athera_!”

This time, the cry he makes is panicked, and he clutches her to him and mumbles a breathless stream of Elvhen into her neck, his heart pounding wildly against her chest.

She relents, softening her kisses and trailing them from his temple to his chin, as he comes down from the precipice and collapses back against the cushions, his fingers twisting in her shirt.

“Ir abelas,” she says throatily. “Is there a problem?”

He meets her gaze, and then laughs breathlessly, his chest drenched in sweat and his hands trembling at her waist. 

“It has-” he swallows, hard. “It has been _some time_ since I was intimate with someone.”

She sits back, placing her hands on his chest and smiling down at him gently.

“How long has it been?”

He swallows again, apparently unable to stop his hips from rolling up once more and drawing another soft gasp from his throat.

“Before the war,” he says at last, and she stills on top of him.

“ _Before_ the war?” She repeats.

He looks back at her, a shadow in his eyes.

“But that’s seven _thousand_ years.”

She waits for him to correct her, but he simply meets her gaze with a distant sadness that makes her heart clench. All at once, the sense of power she’d felt softens into something tender and protective. She slips to the side, keeping one leg thrown over his and lying down beside him, her head propped up on her hand so she can look down into his face.

“Tell me,” she urges gently. 

He licks his lips, his rigid length still straining against the confines of his leggings, and his expression torn between desire and pain. She ghosts her hand along his stomach, trailing her nails along the patch of skin above his waistband, and his fingers dig into her thigh and pull her more tightly against him.

“I couldn’t…” He cuts himself off, his voice rough, and she lets her fingers drift to his thigh. “There was too much-” 

He sucks in a sudden breath, and she hears the strain in his voice.

“It’s ok,” she reassures him softly, and kisses the hollow of his throat where she knows he can feel an ache.

He tightens his grip on her leg and presses his face into her hair, and she feels such a surge of affection for him that she has to close her eyes.

“There was no one I could trust,” he whispers at last. “No one I could be sure really wanted _me_.” 

She rewards him for his honesty by resting her hand over his throbbing length, and squeezing quickly once. He reacts convulsively, smothering a shout into her hair and biting his nails into the meat of her thigh.

“Do you want this?” She asks him. 

In answer, he crushes his lips to hers, his tongue dipping into her mouth and his teeth worrying at her lower lip. His need is overwhelming. His desire is like the sun. When they break apart again they are both panting, and Solas’ expression is feverish and adoring.

“You have _no idea_ how desperately I want this,” he says roughly. “But I am not used to this. To you. I have no idea, I can’t-”

His sentence is cut off by a grating moan, as she takes the opportunity to unlace his leggings, and wrap her hand around his cock. In one swift movement, he becomes boneless, melting back against the cushions and arching his back, his hands clenching into fists.

Her heart stutters in her chest, and she draws her hand back down and begins a steady, pulsing rhythm that has him whimpering in seconds. 

He is lost, and craving, and beautiful.

Beneath her hands, he dissolves into desperate cries and trembling pleas. His stomach muscles clench with the effort of holding onto his tenuous control, and he flings one arm over his face while his other hand twists into her shirt and tries to pull her still closer.

“Breathe, ma fen,” she urges him softly, when his breath begins to come in desperate gasps, and he starts to groan on every exhale. “You need to get used to pleasure again.”

She presses a kiss to his temple, her lips lingering there as he turns his face to hers and keens, his eyes screwed shut and his jaw clenched tight.

“Tonight can be all for you,” she promises him. “Don’t worry about anything else.”

She increases her pace, and he throws his head back and groans, his hips bucking up into her hand and his chest glistening with sweat.

“Please, please, please,” he begs helplessly, his hand clawing at her hip. “Don’t stop. Athera. Sathan. Please, I can’t- I don’t-,” he gasps. “I’m going to-”

“Garas,” she breathes. “Come for me.”

“Oh, oh, _oh_!” His voice rises, higher and higher, and then she watches in wonder as he screams her name and arches off the cushions, his orgasm shaking him from his head to his toes and his cock pulsing in her hand, as he spends himself in thick strands over his stomach.

She strokes him leisurely through the aftershocks, her other hand coming up to pet the back of his neck, as his screams dissolve into soft gasps and he turns his face into her shoulder and sinks into her weakly. When he starts to shudder, she releases him and tucks him carefully back into his leggings, and he manages to get an arm around her and hold her close, while his breathing slows and calms.

She nuzzles him softly, pressing tender kisses to the top of his head and smoothing her hands down his back, her own arousal forgotten as he curls towards her as though seeking to hide. 

After a long moment, she disengages herself from him and crosses the room to get a cloth. When she comes back, his arm is back to hide his face, and he says nothing as she cleans the mess from his stomach and settles herself again at his side.

“There now,” she says gently, taking him in her arms again. His breath shudders and he hides his face against her neck. “Are you ok?”

He swallows, and then nods wordlessly. She isn’t convinced.

“Are you sure?”

She feels his breath, hot against her skin when he speaks.

“Ir abelas,” he says hoarsely, and she stills.

“Tel’abelas,” she replies at once. “What do you have to be sorry about?”

He is silent again, and she draws him back so she can look at him and cup his face between her hands. What she sees makes her throat ache, as he looks back at her with fearful vulnerability, his eyes wide and uncertain.

“You were perfect,” she tells him honestly. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His eyes search her face, looking for the lie, and then his expression crumbles and he kisses her urgently, his fingers tangling in her hair and his lips trembling against hers. Once again, she is hopelessly lost, baffled by his reaction and powerless to resist his advances.

Eventually, she manages to pull away, pressing their foreheads together and running her fingers soothingly over his skin. 

“Talk to me,” she encourages, and he lets out a soft sigh and nestles himself more comfortably against her. 

“In Elvhenan,” he begins hesitantly. “I would have been laughed out of the bedroom for that kind of display. To lose control so completely, so _quickly_ ,” he draws a deep breath in. “It is shameful, really. I would never have been able to show my face in court again.”

There is a bitter self-hatred in his voice that makes her ache in sympathy, and she pulls back and forces him to meet her eye, so that he can see the sincerity of her words.

“That wasn’t shameful,” she tells him seriously. “It was perfect. And incredibly flattering, if you must know.”

She smiles, and he searches her face again, his expression softening into something both confused and hopeful when he sees the conviction in her eyes. 

“You are telling the truth,” he says, and he sounds completely baffled.

She kisses him.

“This is not Elvhenan,” she tells him. “And I am not interested in your power. I am only interested in _you_.”

He hesitates for only the barest second, and then his hands clench around her, and he kisses her fiercely. First her lips, then her cheek, then a path across her forehead, until finally, he tucks himself back into his favourite spot against her neck, and sucks a soft mark into her skin.

“Athera,” he whispers at last, in that tone that sounds like a prayer. “You terrify me.”

She stares into the fire while she waits for him to say more.

“I do not know what strange fortune brought you into my path, but I fear I will never be myself without you again.”

He sighs, and inhales deeply against her neck.

“My bright star.”

She hugs him closer and smiles, because if she doesn’t, she might cry.

“Ma fen,” she returns softly.

He tangles his legs with hers and finally relaxes into her arms. Before long, she hears his breathing even out into sleep, and with the fire burning low in the hearth, she rests her cheek on top of his head and breathes him in.

_Ma fen_ , she thinks again.

Yes, he is her wolf now. But whether it will turn out to be a blessing or a curse, she still has no way of knowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so did you really think my Solas wasn't a massive sub?! PLEASE.
> 
> I've also had to up the rating for this fic because hey, it turns out the sex is going to be explicit! Since you're all here and reading Solas romance fic, I assume that you don't mind :D
> 
> Translations
> 
> Sathan - Please  
> Garas - Come  
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry  
> Tel'abelas - Don't be sorry  
> Ma fen - My wolf


	36. Honey and Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut and trauma - in that order.

She woke in the morning with a stiff neck, and for a long moment, couldn’t remember where she was. The plush sofa was unfamiliar, as was the thick nest of blankets tucked around her, and the cold embers of the fire smoking softly in the pale sun. After long seconds of consideration, the events of the night before came back to her slowly, and she blushed and burrowed deeper into the cushions, even as a smile broke over her face. 

The sound of movement across the room drew her attention, and she rolled over and blinked blearily into the morning shadows, to where Solas was standing at the warming stove, dressed only in his leggings. She took a moment simply to admire the graceful slope of his back, and the strong shoulders that flexed as he bent to retrieve a plate from the cupboard. 

In the post-dawn quiet, his face was dappled with sunlight, a serene languidness softening his features that she’d never seen there before. Her affection for him surged, and she snuggled more deeply into the blankets and watched with quiet pleasure as he bustled about the kitchen, and the smell of baking bread drifted tantalisingly through the air.

Her heart stuttered, and she had to smother a pleased sigh as she realised that the Dread Wolf was making them breakfast. 

Warm in her blanket cocoon – which she certainly hadn’t tucked herself into – she listened in contentment as Solas hummed to himself and piled two plates high with warm bread, before turning to face her.

He froze when he saw that she was already awake, and then dipped his head as a bashful smile tugged at his lips.

“On dhea,” she smiled at him sleepily.

“On dhea,” he returned softly. 

She moved aside to make room for him, and he set the plates down on the coffee table and joined her under the covers without a second thought. 

Perhaps it was the strange domesticity of the morning, or perhaps it was simply that his bare skin was distracting, but Athera found herself drawing him into a rolling kiss, her fingertips dancing along his ribs as she pressed herself against him, and generally did her best to get in his way. He responded unhurriedly, relaxing into her embrace and meeting the press of her lips with gentle eagerness and a quiet sigh.

“Athera,” he murmured against her mouth, and when she pulled back to look at him she saw that he was smiling, his expression clear and warm.

“You made breakfast,” she said, nuzzling at his cheek. “It smells amazing.”

“It’s just bread and honey,” he demurred. “The pantry isn’t very well stocked, but I wanted to do something, to show you…”

She lifted her head to look at him as he trailed off, and he brushed his nose along hers and smiled.

“I wanted to show you how grateful I was,” he said softly. “For what you did for me last night.”

She frowned, thoroughly confused about what he could mean.

“What I did for you?” She asked. “You mean what _we_ did, together?”

She shook her head, laughing a little at the blush in his cheeks.

“You don’t need to thank me for that, Solas,” she grinned. “I enjoyed it as much as you did, trust me.”

It was true. There was something intensely erotic about seeing someone like Solas – someone strong, and proud, and fragile – come apart beneath her hands, while trusting that she would catch him when he fell.

His smile grew, and he kissed her softly once, and settled his arms around her.

“I am certainly glad to hear it,” he said sincerely. “But I meant, what you did afterwards.”

He looked away towards the cold fire, his thumb rubbing circles over her hip.

“It has been a long time since I have been intimate with someone,” he said. “But I am also unused to being intimate with someone I care for, or who cares for me.”

He sighed, pressing his lips to her temple and lingering there.

“I told you once that you have shown me more kindness these last few months than I have ever experienced,” he murmured against her skin. “It seems that this holds true for intimacy, as well as for friendship. It is… New to me. But certainly not unpleasant.”

She frowned, the implication of his words making her feel cold.

“When you say, that you aren’t used to being intimate with someone who cares for you-” she began, but Solas cut her off with a kiss, nuzzling her jaw and looming over her until she found herself lying on her back and pressed firmly beneath him.

“Let us not speak of that now,” he said softly, something dark in his eyes that was swiftly replaced by hunger. “I have had one of the most pleasant mornings I can remember having in a great many years.”

He bent his head to her neck, and a rush of heat ran through her as his tongue flicked over her pulse point.

“Tell me how to please you,” he whispered. “Let me make you sing.”

She wanted to tell him that the way his hips were currently rolling against her, his growing arousal brushing against her clit through her clothes, was already doing a good enough job of that already. But then he nipped at her collarbone and his hands brushed beneath her shirt, and she gasped instead and wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him closer still.

In mere seconds, heat kindled in her core, and she claimed his mouth in a demanding kiss and raked her nails down his back until he groaned. When he pulled back again, his eyes were dark with something predatory, and in the next moment, he’d somehow managed to remove both her shirt and her breastband in one fluid motion, and bent his mouth to her nipple.

She gasped as hot wetness engulfed her, pleasure sparking through her body and swooping low in her stomach while he laved at her breast, and one of his hands began to knead at her hip possessively.

She tried to hold onto her thoughts for long enough to remember that there was something troubling him – that this intimacy had started as a distraction from a painful topic of conversation – but then he turned his attention to her other nipple and every coherent thought flew out of her head.

_Here_ was the hunger and covetousness that she’d glimpsed in his fevered kisses before. She barely had time to call out his name, before he was divesting her of her leggings and his lips were brushing insistently along the inside of her thigh.

“Solas,” she tried breathlessly, rational thought unspooling in a potent wave of desire as she reached down to clutch at his hand. “Are you sure you want to do this now?”

He stilled, his breath ghosting over her growing wetness and sending the aching pulse between her legs into overdrive. 

“Do you want me to stop?” He asked, his voice rough.

She cast about for some self-control, but when she raised her head to look at him, the sight of him gazing up at her from between her legs, his lips parted with desire and his pupils blown wide, made her fall back again with a whimper.

“ _Fenedhis_ , no,” she managed to choke, and then his tongue swept through her folds, and she lost all concept of the rest of the world.

For a long while, there was only the feel of his mouth on her, and the pulsing ache that he seemed to be able to pluck like a string; drawing her to the very edge, before bringing her back down again and again, until she was making desperate, high-pitched noises and begging for him to let her fall.

When he’d brought her to the brink more times than she could count, and pulled back again at the last second, she heard herself wailing his name as though at a distance, her legs shuddering and her hands clutching desperately at the sofa beneath her. Only then did he finally slip two fingers easily inside her, and wrap his lips around her clit.

She came apart with a scream, her vision tunnelling as her walls clenched around him, and her whole body sang with pleasure. Somehow, he held her there, a pulse of magic coiling deep within her core that drew out every exquisite second, until she came a second time and collapsed into the cushions, every muscle in her body limp and trembling.

She barely managed to tilt her head as Solas crawled back over her again, and her arms felt boneless as she drew him down for a wet kiss, and she tasted herself on his lips.

“You are _divine_ ,” he breathed, his teeth nibbling at her ear and his voice gratifyingly strained.

She could barely hear him over the ringing in her head, and she fumbled ineffectually with his leggings where his erection still strained against the fabric.

“Athera,” he murmured breathlessly. “I _want_ you.” 

His chest rose and fell rapidly as a blush spread over his skin, and something hot and bright kindled in her chest as he gazed down at her, a vulnerable desire in his eyes.

“Say that I can have you,” he whispered. “Say that I am yours.” 

She nodded her assent, uncertain of whether she could speak, and as he slipped out of his leggings and his throbbing cock sprang free, she pushed him down into a sitting position and moved to straddle his hips.

There was no leisurely exploration this time; Solas’ need was too great, and her muscles were too spent to bother with an extended tease. Instead, she watched his expression in quiet awe as she lowered herself onto him, and shades of fear, bliss, and pleasure flickered across his face in quick succession. 

When she’d taken him all, he exhaled as though winded and dropped his head onto her shoulder, whispered entreaties in Elvhen that she couldn’t translate, tumbling from his lips. 

“ _Athera_.”

His voice was broken, ragged, and she paused for a moment simply to kiss him, and give herself time to adjust to his considerable length. But whatever restraint he’d possessed for the last few millennia seemed to have deserted him, and he moaned against her mouth, his hands tight on her hips as he urged her to move, his whole body pulled taut and straining.

“Athera, sathan,” he begged. “Don’t make me wait. Ar isalathe ma.”

As if to encourage her, he splayed a hand over the base of her back, and she cried out as a wave of mana sank deep into her body, and took her from boneless to desperate in an instant. She gasped, her body as tightly wound as if she’d never found release, her hips beginning to rock of their own volition and driving him deeper inside her.

He smothered a shout against her shoulder and his hands clutched at her back, as they found a steady rhythm together that made them both gasp. Before long, his whispered Elvhen dissolved into something incoherent and shattered, and Athera rode him harder, until sharp cries and staccato breaths slipped from both of their mouths while his fingers dug bruises into her hips.

She drew back to watch him, his gaze open and amazed as his head fell back against the sofa to watch her in return. Groans that pulled from deep in his chest rumbled straight to her core, and before she knew it, she was cresting again, her vision going white as she clenched around him and her hands clutched for balance at his shoulders. 

A second later, he followed with a cry, his body jerking forward and his teeth sinking into the juncture at her neck, sending a sharp spike of pleasured pain through her blood as he came apart in her arms.

She dropped her head to his as the wave receded, sweat glistening on her skin while she held him close and struggled to catch her breath. She felt as weak as a kitten; spent and sated and content. A distant part of her brain woke up for long enough to form the thought: _so, that’s what the Dread Wolf is like in bed_ , and she cut off an inappropriate wave of laughter by pressing a kiss to the skin beneath his ear.

Solas seemed dazed, his body a dead weight against hers as he came back to himself, and she realised he was trembling.

“Ma fen,” she crooned to him. “You were wonderful.”

A moment later, she felt him sob, hot and wet against her neck, and she tugged them both down to lie across the sofa, and let him weep softly into her shoulder. Languid and warm, she rubbed gentle circles over his back while he curled into her and pressed himself as close as he could get.

She gentled him through it, knowing that there was nothing to be feared or disdained in his reaction; this was just another kind of release, and one that he desperately needed. Eventually, his sobs turned into soft hiccups and trembling kisses brushed to her neck, and she wiped his tears away in a practiced motion and captured his lips with hers.

“Ir abelas,” he said, when they finally pulled apart. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why-” 

She cut him off with another kiss, her chest so tight she thought it might shatter.

“One day, you’re going to have to stop apologising for having an orgasm,” she said dryly.

A beat passed in which he simply he stared at her, and then his vulnerable expression suddenly broke, and he dissolved into a wave of bright laughter that lit up his eyes like the sun. She laughed with him, nuzzling his face and twining her legs between his, while his shoulders shook and he tangled his fingers in her hair.

Eventually, he sighed happily against her cheek, and she felt something inside her chest lurch in response. In that moment, he was more relaxed than she’d ever known him. The constant frown line between his eyebrows was gone. The mark of tension in his jaw had been smoothed away. His lazy smile looked natural as it pulled at the curve of his lip, and his fingers smoothed soft circles over her stomach in an achingly tender gesture of care.

She closed her eyes in self-preservation, half-certain that if she kept on looking at him, her heart was going to burst from her chest. The situation she’d found herself in shouldn’t have been possible. A mortal Dalish elf should never have come to hold the Dread Wolf in her arms; and the Dread Wolf should never have come to rely on her for such simple measures of comfort.

Her heart shouldn’t flip when she looked at him. Her instincts should warn her away, not keep urging her ever closer. And yet, here they were, clinging to one another as though only they existed in the whole of the world. 

Their stability was an illusion, she knew. A beautiful mirage suspended in smoke, and just as likely to blow away in the wind. But for now, it was an illusion she cherished. So, when Solas pulled on his leggings and began to spread honey over the bread, she let him feed her sweet mouthfuls of breakfast, chasing his fingers when he withdrew them, and laughing when the preserve dripped down his chin and he chuckled.

When they’d eaten their fill, she stretched her arms listlessly over her head, and smiled coyly when his gaze followed the movement of her breasts, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured softly, his knuckles brushing against her cheek and raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

She scoffed.

“You, Fen’Harel, are ridiculous.”

A flash of something pained moved over his face, and he slipped his arms around her and rested his cheek on top of her head.

“Solas, my star. Please,” he whispered. “Call me Solas.”

She stilled, the distant hurt in his voice so sudden and familiar, that she wanted to pull the words back inside her mouth and swallow them.

“Solas,” she mumbled against his chest, and he sighed. “Ma fen.”

The tension bled out of him again, and they sat together with his arms around her while the morning drifted away beyond the walls. As the minutes passed, she found herself torn. On the one hand, she desperately wanted to preserve this morning as something precious and bright; to cast it in amber and keep it safe and unstained by the rest of the world and its whims.

On the other, she suspected that the strange sorrow in Solas’ voice had its roots in what he’d started to tell her earlier; before he’d manoeuvred her away from the conversation with the skilful application of his tongue. She worried over the problem, chewing on her lip as she listened to his heart beat steadily beneath her ear. 

“Solas?” She asked at last.

“Hm?”

“What you were saying earlier-”

He tensed, his arms turning rigid and his heart beginning to race against her cheek. 

“It is nothing,” he replied, his voice unnervingly even. “Merely the difference between my past and my present. It is nothing to worry yourself over.”

She would have believed him, had she not been able to feel the frenetic pulse already thundering beneath his skin. She sighed, pulling away so that she could look at him, only to come face-to-face with a blank and distant expression that made her feel cold all over. 

“Solas,” she tried again. “I know that’s not true.”

She waited, but his expression didn’t change, except that now his jaw was set firmly and the contentment of his earlier mood was gone.

“It is none of your concern,” he said, his voice suddenly harder than she’d ever known it. “Some experiences are mine alone, and do not require your input.”

A sharp spike of hurt pierced her chest, and she smoothed her face into stone. He was looking at her now with an expression that bordered on contempt, and instinctively, she raised the blankets to hide her bare chest, and give herself some protection from his gaze.

“I understand that it must be unsettling for you-” She said gently, but that was as far as she got.

In a single motion, Solas stood up from the sofa, knocking an empty plate to the ground and moving to stand in front of the fireplace.

“You understand _nothing_ ,” he snarled. “If you did, you would not keep pushing.”

She stared numbly at his back, at the muscles rising and falling with his rapid breaths, while her thoughts scrambled frantically to catch up. Only moments ago, he had been calm – _joyful_ , even – and feeding her bites of honeyed bread from his hand. Now, it was though a stranger were standing in his place, a man made of jagged edges and bitter words that caught on the flesh of her heart.

“Solas, whatever it is,” she said, hating how her voice shook. “We clearly _do_ need to talk about it. If we’re going to have a physical relationship, then I need to know about your other experiences, about where your boundaries are, otherwise-”

The sound that left him was almost a hiss, and he whirled around to face her, his expression haunted and incensed. It took everything in her not to flinch away, so terrible was the rage in his eyes.

“So that’s it, is it?” He sneered. “Get me into bed, and when my defences are lowered, decide which of my secrets to steal?”

She shook her head blankly. Her mouth opened in protest, but no sound came out.

“I should have known,” he spat, as a flicker of hurt crossed his face. “Nothing is ever given for free. I will tell you now, Athera Arlanan, that it is not wise to try and manipulate a trickster.”

“I wasn’t-” 

“ _Don’t!_ ” He slammed the flat of his palm against the mantelpiece, the sound sending a wave of panic through her that made her flinch into the corner of the sofa.

She stared at him, her body primed to flee, while his muscles shook with a fierce kind of anger and he breathed heavily through his nose, his face turned to the floor.

“Why did you have to spoil it?” He whispered, his voice brittle and forbidding. “You would bid me trust you, while you pick over the most shameful pieces of my past as though they are yours to judge?”

Athera trembled, suddenly all too aware that wherever this conversation had turned to, she had completely lost control. This was not the Solas who confided in her. The man standing by the dead fire was not reaching out, tentatively with trust. No. This person standing before her was a wolf, backed into a corner and baring every one of his teeth. She didn’t know how to deal with this side of the wolf, and all of a sudden, he scared her.

She said nothing, frozen in place by his fury and his scorn, the wetness of their coupling that still lingered between her legs, swiftly becoming a cold and mocking thing. She clenched her thighs together and drew the blankets closer, afraid that one wrong move would shatter everything they had built together, and sunder it beyond repair.

Solas seemed frozen too, his face drawn in wrath and his eyes distant and terrible. After a long minute, he seemed to shake himself free of his stupor, but he barely glanced at her before he snatched up his tunic and stormed from the cottage. The door swung shut with finality behind him, and Athera finally released the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding, and doubled over with her head between her knees.

She had taken Solas into her bed, but it was the Dread Wolf who’d finally run free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I really feel like a lot of Solas' trauma in his past is tied to people using him, and while Athera's done a lot of work to get him to open up to her, there are still going to be a lot of pitfalls in dealing with a wounded ancient god. 
> 
> Can't have it get too easy, can we?! *cries*
> 
> Translations:
> 
> On dhea - Good morning  
> Sathan - Please  
> Ar isalathe ma - I need you (specifically, a sexual need)  
> Ma fen - my wolf


	37. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athera and Solas realise they both have scars.

She moved through the day as though some strange ghoul was in control of her body. After her heart had stopped racing and her fear had softened into hurt, she’d taken herself to the nearby stream, and scrubbed the evidence of their passion away until her skin was raw and freezing. 

She didn’t see Solas anywhere in their little clearing, and for that she was absurdly grateful. When she’d dressed, she went back inside, lighting a fire to chase the chill from her bones and clearing away the shattered shards of the plate.

Alone in the cottage, her fears free-wheeled, her tentative grasp on Solas’ personality slipping through her fingers like water. She’d known already that he was wounded. She understood that he craved touch like other people needed food. She’d seen his intrinsic pride clash with the necessity for comfort too many times to count, but although it was clearly a struggle for him to trust her, she’d thought that she’d earned it from him a hundred times over by now.

But despite all of their conversations, and all of their nights spent in each other’s arms, it seemed that there were still hurts inside Solas that went deep enough to still bleed when pushed. 

Logically, she understood that. Emotionally, she was in free-fall.

She didn’t know the man who’d stormed out of the cottage. She couldn’t reconcile the furious scorn in his eyes with the person who’d called her his star. She didn’t understand how a careless question could turn her gentle, loving wolf into a beast made of anger and teeth. 

The truth was, he had scared her. For a scant few minutes, she hadn’t been sure that he wouldn’t hurt her, and that sense of helplessness cut more deeply than she cared to admit. The dual nature of his personality was something she thought she’d reckoned with already, but the unbridled power of the Dread Wolf, his ancient strangeness made manifest between four walls, had shaken her deeply.

No matter how keenly she cared for him, the tentative bridge they’d made between their two antithetical worlds, could all too easily crumble. Suddenly, she felt every inch of her mortal ignorance. How could she possibly hope to understand a being that had lived for tens of thousands of years? Holding Solas in her arms felt natural, but his emotional state was littered with traps just waiting for a wrong step to spring them.

For the first time, she truly doubted her ability to cope with them. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was hurt him, and yet she had, without even meaning to. She hadn’t seen the trap until it had already caught her in its teeth, and those teeth could wound her in return. 

Far from being a haven of safety, the cottage now seemed remote and frightening. She was alone in the woods with an ancient Elvhen mage, a man whose life had been spent in conflict and war; and she was the child now desperately trying not to sink beneath the overwhelming tide of his needs. 

Worse still, there was nothing she could do but wait for him to come back, and hope that he was more in control of himself when he did. 

With the prospect of having to face that boiling fury she’d seen in his face looming on the horizon, she set upon the safe house like a demon; if only to drive the image from her mind. She scoured each and every room, wiping dust from every surface and scrubbing at years of baked-in dirt, until the wood and stone began to gleam.

She tore her nail hammering a new leg onto the table; cut her arm on a jagged corner of the stove; polished the copper bathtub until it shone; and spent the last long hour of daylight pulling thick reams of sludge from the tank on the roof, until the water ran clear once again. 

After washing for a second time in the stream, the growing darkness turning her anxiety into formless shadows that lurked behind each tree, she came back to the house to find that Solas had still not returned. Her body ached with exhaustion. Her injured shoulders were swollen from her work, and a deep burning ache dripped down her back once again.

She shuddered, stoking the fire and sending a magelight to the ceiling, the better to chase the darkness away. The burning in her muscles sent flashes of memory dancing in front of her eyes. Revas’ array of torture instruments, the dank smell of the basement. Clawed hands reaching out of an eluvian. The glinting of the Dread Wolf’s six eyes.

A wave of panic took her, and she burrowed into the sofa and clapped a hand over her mouth, breathing heavily. What in the void was she doing? 

_His desire to protect you may be the only thing that stands between this world and destruction._

To her horror, a hysterical laugh burst from her lips and tears sprang to her eyes. She realised, with a sudden electrifying shock of insight, that she had been lying to herself. She has taken each new trial in her stride, seeing one problem at a time, and mapping her way through them in turn. 

She has rescued the Dread Wolf, faced down the twisted remnants of Elvhenan, endured torture and loss, and rejoined the fight for freedom, by looking no further than the immediate danger and applying what skills she can. Now, the immediate danger is sharing a cottage with her, and even worse, she thinks that she’s fallen in love with him.

All of a sudden, she desperately wants her mother, Adahlen, Halin, Varric, - _fenedhis_ , she’d even run to Fenris right now – anyone – who might hold her and tell her that she’s going to be ok. She can see now that she is a child, swept out from the shore and swimming way out of her depth, struggling to keep her head above the waves. 

She has no idea how to save the world. Until now, she has been relying on Solas’ affection for her to save them all, but his affection, like his serenity, is a fragile and tenuous thing. She is only one mortal elf; how could she ever hope to bear the emotional wounds of a god? By the Blight, even the god himself can hardly bear them!

In the darkness, she begins to recognise that she is crumbling beneath a burden she’s been carrying for months, but has only felt the true weight of now. She is young, and lost, and making it up as she goes along. 

Until now, her instinctive hope has kept her looking forward. Her feelings for Solas have sheltered her against the overwhelming pressure of caring for an ancient lord. But his reaction to her intimacy has chipped away that fragile hope. Her affection for him is overshadowed by fear.

Varric was right. She has given everything she has to making sure that he feels secure, and in all of the time they’ve spent together, she never stopped to ask whether _she_ felt secure. She does not feel secure anymore. 

She is terrified. 

When the door to the cottage finally opens again, it is long past midnight, and the fire has burnt down to a nest of glowing embers. She tenses instinctively. She tries not to. She knows that at least a part of Solas’ calm is dependent upon her own being so strong. But she can’t help it. She is prey, and the predator is in the room. 

He stands by the stove, silhouetted against the window in the dim light of the flames. In the shadows, she can’t see his face, and she smooths her expression into a mask of calm even as adrenaline commands her to run. 

Her rational mind knows that she is over-reacting, but it is primal, this fear. 

It is the fear of the Dalish, hunted across Thedas. It is the fear of a slave, beaten and abused in the opulent homes of Tevinter. It is the fear of a torture victim, only recently freed. And it is the fear of a woman, when faced with the anger of a man.

Neither of them seem to want to speak first. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring, and Athera hears her heartbeat pounding in her head. After what seems like an age, Solas steps closer, moving into the light, and her panic grows wings in her chest when she sees that his expression is blank. 

The next breath she takes shudders in the air, and his eyes snap to hers and pin her there. She can’t tell whether there’s any emotion still inside him.

“Is there anything you wish to say to me?” He asks, and his voice sounds hollow. It is an absence of personhood, and it frightens her more than she can say.

“I- I- Ir abelas,” she stutters, her voice barely a whisper.

She has pressed herself into the corner of the sofa, her knees drawn up in front of her and her hands clenched to hide the fact that they tremble. 

Something moves behind his eyes, but it is gone just as quickly as it came.

“You are frightened,” he observes, in that same terrible monotone. 

She swallows. She thinks she’s shivering.

“You are not yourself,” she whispers. 

He seems to digest this, but nothing shows on his face.

“Am I not?” He asks, as though considering the question himself. And then his gaze sharpens, and she quakes. “And how would you know?” 

Survival is the desired outcome of fear. Fear galvanises as much as it paralyses, and Athera draws on it now.

“I know,” she says, her voice stronger, although she still dare not move from her seat. “I know you, Solas.”

His eyes flicker again, but he remains unmoved. 

“And what is it you think you know of me, da’len?” 

His voice is dangerous. She is treating with the Dread Wolf now, and inside the confines of her mind, she is frantically building walls. While her terror rises like a tidal wave, she redirects it into purpose; her diplomacy is an act of necessity. She sharpens her love for him into a blade. 

“I know that you prefer to wake early than stay up late,” she says. “I know that you detest tea and covet sweets.”

She licks her lips. 

“I know that you always sleep with the window open.”

Her throat feels thick.

“I know that you sing to yourself when you think you’re alone. You value freedom but regret its cost.”

His hand twitches at his side.

“You pursue knowledge for its own ends, and distrust power in the hands of others because you know enough to distrust yourself.”

His throat bobs as he swallows, and Athera steels herself to go further.

“You’re ambidextrous, but you cast mostly with your left hand, and write with your right. You prefer fruit for breakfast and always cut it into segments of six if you can.”

Her vision blurs, and she feels a tear slide inexorably down her cheek.

“You prefer to sleep against a wall in bed. You shave your head because it signifies your grief.”

That last one was a guess, but she sees it hit its mark in the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“You have a freckle on your right hipbone,” she says, her voice soft and choked. “And one behind your left ear. And you want, more than anything, to have somewhere you feel safe.”

For a long moment, he simply stares at her. She tastes the salt of her own tears as they tumble down her cheeks, and then his face breaks open and he crumples to his knees. The next breath she takes is a wracking sob, relief demolishing her fragile defences and plunging her into grief.

She only just has time to take note of his devastated expression, before she buries her face in her hands and cries like she hasn’t done since she was a child. 

When she finally comes back to herself, her head is pounding and she is shaking all over. She has treated with the Dread Wolf and won. The problem, is that she has had to stare into the darkness of the man she loves to do it.

He is still there, on his knees on the floor, his gaze tormented and his hands reaching out for her, waiting for permission to come closer. She can’t give it, and the realisation draws a bitter sound from her mouth as she curls more deeply into the sofa and wraps her arms around herself.

“Athera,” he whispers, and his voice is desolate and horrified. “I would not have hurt you.”

His eyes are wide, and teeming with hurt; and she believes him. He would not have hurt her. Not in the primal way she feared. But words are the Dread Wolf’s weapons, and they could have torn her apart just as easily as his magic or his fists. 

“ _Athera_ ,” he entreats her again, and her heart pulses painfully in her chest.

She draws a deep breath in. She wants to go to him. She _wants_ him to hold her. She is still terrified. 

She reaches for him anyway, only for the sudden movement to make him flinch. She stares at him in shock, and then a blistering cold runs through her veins, as she realises that they have shattered something vital between them. 

It seems that he realises it at the same time, because his expression breaks apart and he makes an anguished noise low in his throat, and drops his face into his hands.

She pushed at some raw hurt he wasn’t ready to face. He reacted to protect himself in the only way he knew how. 

The bitter reality is, that they have each made the other afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, we're probably going to be dealing with some trauma here, folks! The way I see it, Athera's actually had a lot of reasons in her past not to trust people in power (shems, Tevinter, and now the ancient elves), and since Solas has come into her life, she's basically been lurching from disaster to disaster without addressing the fact that it's genuinely quite frightening to be responsible for a god/the world. 
> 
> And, of course, Solas has a few millennia worth of trauma to wrap his head around which isn't going to happen over night, and it will feel very natural for him to go on the offensive when he feels trapped or betrayed.
> 
> I can't seem to stop throwing problems into the path of this relationship - oops! :')

**Author's Note:**

> I know a few of you have been waiting a while for an update to my other fic Another Life, and I PROMISE I am still working on it! It's just this idea snuck up on me and wouldn't let go so I've gone full chaos and started a second Solas fic because I can't be trusted.
> 
> Elvhen translations:
> 
> Fenedhis - Wolf cock. A common Dalish curse.  
> Garas quenathra? - Why are you here?  
> Ma banal las halamshir var vhen - You do nothing to further our people.  
> Ma serannas, lethallan - Thank you, cousin/kin  
> Dareth shiral - safe journey  
> Ir abelas, fen'falon - I'm sorry, wolf friend  
> Da'len - Young one  
> Harellan - Trickster. Used by the Dalish to mean 'traitor to one's kin'.


End file.
